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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144399">Ashes to ashes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/con_fection/pseuds/con_fection'>con_fection</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Arson, Birds, Cinderella Elements, Cunnilingus, Dark, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Faked Suicide, Female Protagonist, Female Reader, Follows the plot of the Reichenbach Fall, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, Kidnapping, Murder, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Reader is a murderer, Reader-Insert, Vaginal Sex, but doesn't use much dialogue from the show, kind of, sebastian moran and jim moriarty friendship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:21:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>56,935</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144399</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/con_fection/pseuds/con_fection</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty has always loved fairytales. In particular, grim, macabre ones that end in bloodshed. You've been abused by your step-family for years - in every meaningful way, you embody the story of Cinderella. Except, in your version, Cinderella murders her family and burns the house down. When Sherlock Holmes is assigned to find the killers of your step-family, he inadvertently becomes obsessed with you. And when Sherlock is obsessed, Jim Moriarty becomes a man intrigued.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jim Moriarty/Reader, Jim Moriarty/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Once upon a time...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Most fairy tales follow the same format. A lovely, picturesque life, subsequently followed by a tragedy, a period of hardship, all of which is solved by the power of love. The dashing prince saves the damsel in distress, and they remain happy and in love forever, having easily recovered from the trauma of the tragedy and hardship. </p>
<p>Originally, fairy tales did not end quite so nicely. They were macabre, morbid and horrifying. Just as real-life has a tendency to be.  They weren't an idyllic escape from everyday life. They were nightmarish stories that reflected the fears of society. </p>
<p>By 1815, The Brothers Grimm had compiled several stories, among them The Frog Prince, Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel... and Cinderella. </p>
<p>The latter had always, always been your favourite. You had memorised every line, every word, every single mark of punctuation. You could recite every single version of the story off-by-heart. All of the variations sparked a deep-rooted curiosity in you. </p>
<p>How could the same story end so differently? </p>
<p>All that changed was the person reciting the story - and they would chip away at it, changing it piece by piece, passing it down orally, until it was barely recognisable. In some versions, the characters got their happy ending. Cinderella would marry her Prince Charming with the help of her Fairy Godmother. In others, they didn't. One of her vile step-sisters will hack off parts of their feet and marry Prince Charming, and Cinderella would be left alone. </p>
<p>Sometimes minor aspects of the story would change. Different variations would feature doves, her dead Mother, fairies, and occasionally, the glass slipper would be golden. </p>
<p>Your version was entirely different to anything imagined before. </p>
<p>...unbeknownst to you, however, was the fact that you weren't the only person that liked grim fairytales.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Your mother's battle with her myriad of diseases had been one that had defined your childhood. She had been ever-so frail, perpetually in and out of hospitals, constantly deteriorating. There was more than one occasion where you had watched her drop to the floor, her body entirely limp, and you had to be the one to call the ambulance. There were always, always, blood-soaked handkerchiefs strewn around the house. </p>
<p>She was plagued by illness, and in some ways you were suffering just as much as she was. Most children were afforded the luxury of not having to confront the idea of death - often they simply could not even comprehend it. You weren't so lucky as to experience that naivety. </p>
<p>There had been no play-dates for you, there was no time to entertain any other children when each moment had the potential to be her last. Every single waking moment was occupied with the crippling, gut-wrenching fear that one day she might fall down and that the paramedics wouldn't be able to find a pulse. </p>
<p>Every night you would go to bed praying that she would be there in the morning, that she would get her happy ending, that she could read your favourite fairy-tale to you night after night. </p>
<p>"And Cinderella and Prince Charming lived happily ever after, the end!" She would say, smiling brightly as if she hadn't read this to you so many times that she was bored of it. Your mother could probably recite it by heart now, too. </p>
<p>"Do we get a happily ever after, Mommy?" You had asked one night, right after your mother had set the book of fairy-tales down on your bedside table. </p>
<p>"If you pray, God will answer."  She replied, ever-so-vaguely, fiddling with the little golden cross necklace dangling between her collarbones. Now you can recognise that she didn't look surprised by your question, rather, she was in the throes of longing for that happily ever after. </p>
<p>You liked 'happily ever after'. It was a comforting lie that you would willingly believe. In 'happily ever after' there was no pain - in your idea of a happy ending, your mother would recover and you wouldn't burst into tears the moment she staggered out of the room. </p>
<p>But 'happily ever after' had to come after years of torment and misery. It always did. There was no story in which the protagonist began happy and remained that way for all eternity. That would be dreadfully boring, and yet it was what you yearned for the most. Boring and happy would be good. </p>
<p>Her death was a mercy - quick and painless, in her sleep. Her funeral was equally as brief as her life, a bleak affair that you can hardly recall. You had been so, so young then, and the tears just wouldn't stop coming, rolling down your face as your chest wracked with sobs. You can't remember much about it, other than the feeling of your father's hand on your shoulder and the awful, almighty bitterness that threatened to send you to your knees. </p>
<p>Naturally, your mother's funeral had been one of the worst days of your life. She looked so small, so ashen in her casket. Her lips were completely unmoving, drawn into a thin line. Never again would she recite your favourite bedtime story. She didn't look like she was sleeping, not when all vibrancy had been removed from her skin, to the point where it was practically grey and she smelled like a chemical preservative that made you wrinkle your nose and sob even harder. </p>
<p>But, even worse than the funeral had been the wedding. </p>
<p>It had been horrifically easy for your father to move on, and to find comfort in your step-mother, Verona. You had only met her once before they were married. </p>
<p>"Honey, I want you to meet somebody." Your father had said. He looked so happy, smiling in a way that you hadn't seen him do since before your mother died, his lips curved upwards and a strange look in his eyes. "This is Verona, and she means a lot to me." </p>
<p>He looked at Verona the same way that you looked at your fairy-tales. They were an escape, a place where you could pretend that things were different and that you were happy. Verona, with her perfectly curled hair and pearly-white teeth, was his escape, his happy ending. You wanted so badly for her to be yours, as well. It wasn't to be. </p>
<p>"Hello," She cooed down at you. She could smile so sweetly, her peach-pink lips drawn upwards to reveal just a flash of white teeth. It was so saccharine, so lovely. Her voice could take on this mellow, melodic tone. It reminded you terribly of a siren's call - beautiful, and so, so alluring, but it wasn't something that you should put your trust in unless you wanted to drown. Verona always looked down at you - there never came a point where you were to be considered an equal. Never. </p>
<p>There was something about her that made your skin crawl. She was a vile lady, with a wicked grin, honey-blonde hair and long nails that looked like talons. To you as a child, you came to view her as practically a witch, clawing her way into your life just to destroy it for her own amusement. Your father was completely and utterly blind, incapable of seeing any flaw within her. </p>
<p>Now that you were older, you could see her as more than a one-dimensional figure that was simply labelled 'the villain'. She wasn't a nice person, not by your account, but she was complex. Verona was always distant from you, eternally glacial and condescending whenever nobody was watching. She wasn't like that to everybody, though. </p>
<p>Along with the step-mother came two of what you had assumed to be Satan's most accomplished demons. They had inherited a fascinating ability from their mother. The instant your father was in the room, all torment would cease. Whether it be pulling your hair, or vandalising your possessions, they had an innate ability to tell whenever your father was close by. </p>
<p>Verona loved them. It was the only time where she seemed to be genuine in her affection. She would dote on them constantly, cooing at them and reading them stories in the same way that your mother had once done for you. She could pretend to tolerate you in public, and at first, you had lapped it up, basking in her siren's call voice and gazing upon her like she could be your escape, too, like she was something to be cherished, to be worshipped. </p>
<p>She bombarded you with an eternal cycle of love - so much love that you couldn't even feel the pain of losing your mother. She would treat you like you were her own daughter. She would pat you on the head and speak to you so sweetly. And after, would always come the abuse. The screaming, the slapping, the hissed remarks, the threats. </p>
<p>It was hard to deify her after that. So, Verona became the villain, the terrible step-mother who was always there to hold you down. </p>
<p>The wedding itself had been hosted at the very same church your parents had been married in. Their vows were exchanged between what you remembered to be Verona's awful giggles, and you yourself had been a flower girl, along with your step-sisters. </p>
<p>Somehow you managed to feel even worse than you had at your mother's funeral. It wasn't really acceptable to scream and cry at a wedding, so you did your best to look at the very least neutral. </p>
<p>You had spent most of the day staring at the gaudy paper garlands strung from the ceiling, doing your best to avoid thinking about the three women joining the family. </p>
<p>Everybody seemed to adore your step-sisters. They were perfect when they had to be, blonde angels with blue eyes and the sweetest disposition. Aubrey and Alora - twins that were identical in every sense of the word. Your father loved these girls, and he loved his new wife. It was like his previous one, and his first, biological daughter had simply been discarded and pushed to the periphery. </p>
<p>There were no more blood-speckled handkerchiefs strewn about the house, no more pills stashed above the sink, and no more quick trips to the hospital. Instead, there were Verona's lipsticks, and your step-sisters' toys. Pictures of them dominated the mantle place. Their achievements were the ones to be celebrated. </p>
<p>"Well done, Alora. We're so proud of you." </p>
<p>"Oh, Aubrey, you're so smart!" </p>
<p>Any incidents of your step-family's cruelty that you did manage to complain to your father about were either dismissed as the lies of a girl acting out as a result of her grief, or as some minor sibling rivalry that you would get over in time. In fact, your father seemed delighted when he interpreted it as the latter. Sibling rivalry meant that you were coming to see each other as sisters. </p>
<p>"You know, one day, when you grow up, I bet you're doing to be so glad to have Aubrey and Alora. I know that you girls don't always get along, but this is a good thing. They're your sisters." Your father had said, so gently, so softly that you wished for a moment you could believe it - that it was true and you could bring yourself to be thankful.</p>
<p>It flooded you with some kind of resentment - that he could be so passive, so enchanted by Verona and her perfect daughters, that you could become practically irrelevant. That of all of them, your concerns were the ones to be disregarded. </p>
<p>That resentment didn't fade when he died. </p>
<p>It had been an accident - a car-crash. It hadn't even been his fault. He had been on his way home to you, and some maniac had run him off the road. It could have happened to anybody. It should have happened to somebody else. It should have been something you saw on the news and thought about briefly. Instead, you were left an orphan.</p>
<p>His body was far too mangled for any kind of open-casket funeral. By the age of twelve, you had been to two funerals - one for each parent. What most children would do is to hope they were happy together, reunited in heaven. That's what you should have hoped for. Instead, you would pray, over and over again, every single fucking night, that they were burning. That they were being roasted in the flames of hell, and that they were screaming out for your forgiveness. </p>
<p>God hadn't listened when you had asked for your mother to get well and recover from her illnesses, nor when you asked for her to come back to you. Life had been so cruel, and so, you reasoned that its creator must be cruel, too. Perhaps God would listen if you wanted to inflict pain, instead. </p>
<p>The resentment didn't fade - rather, it intensified. After that, you really didn't need anybody to read Cinderella to you. </p>
<p>You had lived it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The first person to rise was always you. It had been that way for years, the beginning of your well-established daily routine. </p>
<p>It was so cold, down in the basement. It wasn't given the same insulation as the rest of the house - and why would it have been? Your parents had mostly used it for storage, primarily for things like your bike, tools, and those family picture albums that you couldn't even bring yourself to open. At the time, there was nothing down there that had really deserved to be kept warm.</p>
<p>It was in rather poor condition. The bricks that comprised the walls were all cracked, and the black paint covering them was chipped and unevenly applied, the shelves looked liable to fall down any minute, and there were piles and piles of things everywhere. There is a saw lying on the ground, next to a few planks of wood that your father had never had an opportunity to use for anything and a stack of cannisters of gasoline that you eye affectionately.</p>
<p>There was always a breeze blowing through the basement, too. Your parents had discarded what they didn't need and stored it in the basement, and once they were both dead and buried, your step-mother had done the same to you. </p>
<p>Your old bedroom, where your mother used to read you bedtime stories and you would fret over her health, had been stripped bare and subsequently turned into Verona's walk-in wardrobe. You had been relegated to the basement, left to freeze whilst fur-coats and cocktail dresses got to enjoy central heating.</p>
<p>To keep warm, you would bundle yourself up in whatever shoddy blankets you could find. They would scratch at your skin and you would shiver against them, grinding your teeth together and hissing at the cold, silently cursing at Verona. It wasn't entirely uncommon for you to wake up and discover your lips had turned blue. It would worry you sometimes, that if it got too cold, you would simply die in the night and there would be nobody to notice. </p>
<p>It was early enough that you could hear the birds cooing sweetly outside, singing to one another as they flit through the branches in the trees outside. It was such a lovely thing to watch, and even lovelier to hear. It's such a pretty sound. You're not entirely sure that your step-family have ever woken early enough to hear it. If they hadn't before, then by now they had certainly missed their chance. </p>
<p>This was meant to be when you would start your chores. Your step-mother had left you to take on a maid role in the house, cooking and cleaning for them, waiting on them hand and foot, scrubbing the floors and surfaces until they shined. It filled you with rage. </p>
<p>Of the four of you, you were by far the best in every measurable way. Verona and her daughters were harpies, beasts with perfect faces that managed to fool just about everybody they came into contact with. Your father had been just one of many that was too naive to see it. They didn't bother with the pretenses around you - you had always seen them for what they were.</p>
<p>By now, you should be starting to sweep the bottom floor of the house, and making breakfast. But today would be different. </p>
<p>You creep up the stairs, your eyes constantly darting around the house, searching for any sign of the other inhabitants. They aren't awake, and you don't expect them to be, but it's always good to check, just in case. </p>
<p>Verona's left her purse on the countertop, next to a wine glass with a pink smudge on its rim and a pair of black elbow-length gloves she'd worn to a dinner the night before. The mere sight of it makes your lips curve up into a sneer. It's the ugliest shade of pink lipstick - vibrant and bold in all the wrong ways, but she somehow makes it look good. Of course she does - it's a talent of hers, really, to make the worst things seem not simply palatable, but also tempting. </p>
<p>You leave the wine glass, there will be no need to clean it today. With a sharp intake of breath, you open the purse, snatching all the money you can from it. Fortunately, Verona likes to keep most of her money in cash, so there's a decent amount. There's enough, at the very least. </p>
<p>The kitchen is obsessively cleaned - every surface shines from your efforts. It's clinical, sterile even, and the smell of cleaning products still permeates the air. There's a broom in the parlour, but you won't be using it.</p>
<p>Never before had you done anything like this. Today was a day that you had fantasised about for years, exploring and navigating different variations of it before constructing the master plan. These steps you were taking had been carefully considered, each and every action poured over obsessively, to the point of madness. All aspects of the plan were to be treated with reverence - they had practically become holy, and you recited them more often than you would prayers.</p>
<p> Already, you were breathing too quickly. There was adrenaline in your system, and your hands were slightly clammy. Nerves - but you weren't nervous. Not really. This was a burning, scalding anticipation that writhed around in your gut and clawed at your insides. </p>
<p>You allow yourself a brief moment to try and relax, letting your eyes flutter shut and letting your shoulders drop. There is a need to be tense - everything hinges on today, on whether or not you accomplish the plan. </p>
<p>When your eyes open, you immediately gravitate towards the knives. Before you select one, you go for Verona's black silk gloves, putting them on and admiring the way they look against your skin, and how smooth they are. They're the kind that's awfully expensive, but they look glamorous. She had worn them just the night prior, when she went to some fancy dinner. </p>
<p>They're hauntingly elegant, a mark of sophistication that contrasts so nicely with what you're about to do. They're a rather lovely way of ensuring that there's no fingerprints left in the house. </p>
<p>It's then that you pick a knife - a weighty silver meat cleaver with dark grey indentations on the handle. They make it look almost porous, and you know that the knife had been part of a set, a gift from one of Verona's friends who was into the culinary arts. </p>
<p>It's heavy, and you test the weight, passing it between your hands, looking at it reverently. The birds are still singing, chirping in harmony, nature's soundtrack to what is about to become a horrific crime. Whether the birdsong will harmonise with screams has yet to be determined. It has the potential to sound like a symphony - a completely lovely cacophony of everything you enjoy.</p>
<p>The meat cleaver shines in the soft sunlight - simply holding it makes you feel assured. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>---</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>You create your own version of Cinderella. One where the house burns down.</p>
<p> The evil step-mother and bratty step-sisters are already dead when the match hits the gasoline that's long-since soaked into the floors. They had been hacked to pieces, their throats split open, almost to the point of decapitation. The blood would seep from the gaping wounds, spilling onto the bed sheets and staining their blonde hair red. They had looked so human in their sleep, so unsuspecting. </p>
<p>There wasn't even any time for them to awake and feel terror, or shock. That, at the very least, is a mercy. You had never really intended for it to be - it was more of a practicality than a fantasy. In the fantasies, the executions had lasted far, far longer. </p>
<p>As a child, experiencing the pains of loss, you had prayed for your parents to burn, so that they may feel as much pain as you. There was no way of knowing whether or not God would come to answer your prayers, so you decide instead to burn the people you can reach. </p>
<p>The meat cleaver is placed back into the kitchen - there's a chance that the wooden knife block may burn and char it and obscure the fact that it was the murder weapon. You keep Verona's gloves and you keep the cash. </p>
<p>There's something so beautiful, so incredibly vindicating about watching it all go up in smoke. </p>
<p>The house burns so beautifully. Flames dance in the windows, consuming the lacey white curtains, creeping their way up the ceiling until the roof catches fire and slowly caves in on itself, the slate-grey tiles becoming charred, crumbling and sliding over one another. </p>
<p>The birds stop singing. They squawk in agitation, fleeing from the nearby trees and taking to the skies. They, much like you, evacuate and watch the show from afar. They start their birdsong afresh once they're out of danger, singing proudly. </p>
<p>Plumes of smoke take to the air, contaminating and invading the morning sky. It's so dark, so thick that it's liable to block out the sun. The smoke's descending to the ground, too, sweeping over the grass like a terrible, ominous fog, rolling over the street and barrelling towards you in waves. </p>
<p>Your eyes and throat burn - you can feel the heat, even from a distance. You're breathing in wisps of the smoke - it's so strong that you feel simultaneously feel like you're choking, juxtaposed with this great, overwhelming sense of freedom. It smells so horrible you want to gag - it's not like the comforting smell from whenever your father would barbeque. It's stifling, oppressive, even. </p>
<p>And yet, despite your eyes watering and the feeling of nausea that the smell inspires within you, you doubt there has ever been a sweeter smell. </p>
<p>The flames flicker so brightly, swaying in tandem in a variety of oranges, reds, yellows and even a flash of white. They're so bright you can see it reflected on your skin. </p>
<p>The plan has been completed. You're entirely satisfied, and yet you're left directionless. Everything has amounted to this moment - to the burning of the monsters. This is your happy ever after, you think. </p>
<p>You stand there, bathed in an orange hue, simply watching, for as long as you're able. </p>
<p>Inevitably, you have to leave. You're rather tempted to dash back across the street and take Verona's car, if only to steal away another thing she loved. Her daughters, her life, her car. But you don't, as much as you would like to. It's another whim, another fleeting fantasy that has to be sacrificed for the sake of your freedom. Perhaps the car would burn, too. It's relatively close to the house. </p>
<p>Getting caught would simply transfer you from one life of imprisonment to another. The inner city of London seems as good a destination as any - it's not too far, and there nobody will know your name.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. bibbity bobbity burn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Sherlock," John says, for what is quite possibly the third time in a row. He sighs in frustration, his eyes darting between Sherlock's phone, which is set on the kitchen counter and has been ringing incessantly for the past half hour, effectively disrupting the peace in 221B, and Sherlock himself, who is positioned on his armchair, his elbows on his knees and his hands interlocked in front of his face. </p><p>"Not now, John. I'm thinking." Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, focusing in on something imperceptible. </p><p>"Right, well, I'll get it shall I?" John says, mostly to himself. He rises from the sofa, striding over to the kitchen to grasp the phone. "Hello? Oh, hi Greg. No, no, he's here. He's thinking. Yes, I'll let him know. Yes, thanks. Bye." </p><p>John turns around, eyeing Sherlock and waiting for any form of reaction. He doesn't even blink. His spine remains ramrod straight, but the tips of his fingers are twitching slightly, tapping rhythmically against his knuckles. He'd been trapped in a cycle of thinking and tossing away clients since he had last seen Moriarty - it was rather disturbing. </p><p>"Sherlock," He tries again. John really is one of the only people that Sherlock depends on, or even tolerates, and he's probably one of the only people that can tell when something has really got to Sherlock. Moriarty is under his skin, he has been in some way for years, starting with the murder of Carl Powers, and culminating with the bombs.  </p><p>"Not now, John. I'm - " </p><p>"Thinking. Yes, I know that." John snaps slightly, huffing. The frustration is evident in his voice, but he shakes it off quickly, disregarding it in favour of a calmer, more patient tone. "Greg just called - " </p><p>Sherlock finally blinks, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. His gaze finally diverts from his interlocked hands to John. "Who?" </p><p>"Greg Lestrade, the man who you've worked with for literal years. You have known him longer than you have known me. You have a case." John explains. </p><p>Much like any knowledge of the solar system, Lestrade's name is simply deleted from Sherlock's mind, redacted on the basis of it being irrelevant. To John, it seems painfully rude, but to Sherlock, it's an everyday practice - he constantly filters out information that he deems not to be useful enough, disregarding it and then replacing it with something new, something more useful. Something smart, something interesting. And as far as Sherlock is concerned 'Greg' is neither of those things. </p><p>"Why didn't you just say so?" Sherlock looks mildly surprised, letting his hands drop and standing up, rising from his armchair. "And I think you mean that we have a case, John." </p><p>"Yes, alright, we." John begrudgingly agrees, tossing Sherlock his phone. The taller man catches it with ease, before shrugging his coat on and stuffing it into a pocket. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"So, ah, what happened?" Is the first thing that tumbles from John's mouth as he and Sherlock enter Lestrade's office at the police station. The door swings shut behind them, but he can still sense Donovan's burning stare at his back, piercing through the door.</p><p>Lestrade is sat at his desk, a collection of pictures strewn around him, haloed by sunlight spilling in from the window behind him. Some of the pictures have been pinned to a corkboard on the wall, connected to each other by thumbtacks and neon-coloured string. He looks rather thankful for Sherlock's presence, his shoulders sagging instantly in relief.</p><p>"Right, well, murder and arson." Lestrade says, turning one of the pictures around. Sherlock and John quickly crowd around it, both vying to see the charred skeleton of a house. </p><p>"That doesn't look much like London." John says, squinting slightly. </p><p>"Well, it's not really London London, you know? It's only London technically." Lestrade supplies, shrugging slightly. </p><p>John nods. "So, it's in your jurisdiction, but barely. And, ah, when exactly did this all happen? Do you have like an estimated time of death?" </p><p>"This morning." Lestrade says. "The fire started pretty early - we can be relatively certain that the victims were killed in the night or this morning. Our killer was pretty quick about it. We're not sure if anything's missing yet." </p><p>"Strange fire pattern," Sherlock remarks, his eyes flitting over all of the pictures. "I assume our perpetrator used an accelerant - most likely gasoline, which they would have poured throughout the house judging by the consistency of the burning. I'm guessing that the fire began in the basement?" </p><p>Lestrade nods. "It's probably the worst room in the whole house. They didn't bother as much with the victims." </p><p>"So the basement's more important, then?" John guesses. </p><p>"Or the most convenient room to start the fire in," Lestrade says. "Right, these are our victims." He rises from behind his desk and strides over to the board, pointing to three pictures depicting three women. The first is probably in her mid-thirties, and she's wearing this slinky black dress with matching silk gloves. Her pale blonde hair is arranged in waves, and she's smiling to display perfectly white teeth. </p><p>"That's Verona Archer, and those are her two daughters Aubrey and Alora." </p><p>"Twins?" </p><p>"Yes, both of them are nineteen, on their gap year. A shame really, from what I can tell they were all very well liked." Lestrade confirms. </p><p>John nods slowly, his eyes travelling over to Verona's daughters. They're identical - the pictures are different, one depicts a young blonde girl wearing a sparkly pink dress, and the other depicts a blonde girl that is her mirror image in every way riding a white pony and waving to the camera. "And their father?" </p><p>"Ah, their dad died when they were three, of kidney failure. Verona remarried - he died nine years ago, in a car crash. Poor woman, losing both of her husbands." Lestrade answers. "Here's what the Archer family look like now." He grabs another three pictures off his desk and pins them underneath the pictures of the women whilst they were alive. </p><p>They're almost impossible to distinguish in death. Their bodies have been charred, their skin turning shrivelled, red and twisted. There's blotchy patches of red and white travelling down their arms, culminating in blackened fingertips that have crumpled to reveal bone. A few strands of their blonde hair has survived, but it's marred with thick blood and ash. </p><p>Their bedrooms, too, have been completely burnt. There's dark black smudges running up the walls, smoke stains pooling on the ceilings and floors, their belongings burnt, singed or reduced to piles of ash. </p><p>Their faces have been mostly obliterated in the fire, the bedsheets around them singed. There's a matching neck wound on each of them, one that's hard to see as a result of how badly their bodies were burnt. The remaining flesh on their neck has bubbled up into blisters and stuck to the sheets, almost melting off the bone. There's a glint of pale cartilage visible, poking out from between pieces of mangled, burnt skin.</p><p>"Their necks were hacked open," Sherlock observes. "There's no hesitation marks, from what I can tell. This wasn't some robbery gone wrong - they were sleeping. They wouldn't have even seen their attacker coming. This looks like a meat cleaver - I'd wager that you could find the murder weapon in their own kitchen. That alone should imply that this was unplanned, and yet, it seems to thoughtfully executed. Delightful." </p><p>John blinks rapidly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, did you just say - you know what, never mind." </p><p>"He really hated them - he resented the Archer family more than anything. Do we know if any of the women had recently rejected a man? Broken off a relationship, perhaps?" Sherlock asks. </p><p>Lestrade shakes his head. "Not that I'm aware of, but I've got people looking into that avenue - forensics is going through the girls' phones right now." </p><p>"He?" John repeats, confusedly. </p><p>"About ninety percent of arsonists are male. Most of them are also white and have a low IQ, typically ranging between seventy and eighty. They're almost always either under eighteen, or in their late twenties." Sherlock says. "We can narrow down our search once we get to the scene." </p><p>John sighs, exchanging a long-suffering glance with Lestrade. "Sherlock, I hate to break it to you, but there's not much left to see." </p><p>"Not for you, but there will be for me." Sherlock says, glancing at John. </p><p>"But we're looking for a man, yes?" Lestrade asks. </p><p>Sherlock narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting between all of the pictures. "Most likely, yes. But we can't rule out a female suspect yet. It's always possible that it's a scorned female lover rather than a male one, or perhaps she could be acting out of jealousy, if those Archer girls were so well liked." </p><p>"Erm, will we even be allowed in the crime scene?" John enquires. "I mean, I imagine it would be quite dangerous, with the house literally crumbling, and all." </p><p>Sherlock scoffs, "You're more than welcome to stand outside and watch, John." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Central London isn't quite what you expect it to be. The bus ride is a nightmare - the incessant chatter of the other passengers around you sets you on edge. Their conversation is all so mundane, so pitifully boring that it makes you feel almost resentful.</p><p>These are people who have always had their freedom - who haven't had to kill and burn their way out of a gilded cage. And they use it to discuss things as asinine as the weather. You long for the depth that you had always been denied, the warmth, the love, the meaning. </p><p>It's so strange, that you can sit among them, an outsider - a dark Cinderella - in the midst of rodents that have yet to turn to carriagemen. </p><p>You're glad when you get off, and you can escape their dull conversations. Though, the streets are much louder. There's not any pretty, delicate fragments of birdsong to be heard here. There's the occasional squawk of some hungry pigeons vying for food, but no birdsong. The air is rife with pollution - contaminated, tainted by smoke. It's all cigarette smoke or the chemical-smelling kind that billows up from factory chimneys in plumes of white and grey smoke. </p><p>It's nothing like the kind you had smelled only earlier today - it's not the corpses of your step-family being reduced to charred remains. That was far more pungent, far sweeter, if only in the way it made you feel. </p><p>There's a constant urge to look over your shoulder. You still feel intensely victorious, and full of a pride that burns just as brightly as your house had done mere hours ago. Yet, amongst those addictive, elated kind of feelings, is a sliver of paranoia. </p><p>You don't want to get caught, not now. All pictures of you, all evidence even of your existence, had been destroyed first. It had to go, you had to be free to start afresh, to reinvent yourself as the princess rather than as the maid. </p><p>Cleaning the house constantly had been so useful. It had taught you a lot about cleaning up after yourself, about making sure that there would be no evidence you were even there. All those surfaces had shined brightly, but so had the knife when you lodged it into their throats. </p><p>The streets in London aren't as nice as you had thought they would be. In every alleyway lingers a different shifty person, eyeing passersby carefully, likely determining who they would try to pickpocket next. </p><p>There's so much noise, too. </p><p>There's the drunken ramblings of men who are going through a midlife crisis and day drinking. They stumble through the streets, seemingly having gravitated towards one another, forming packs of aimless, rowdy men who just want to escape from their lives and live something that's more interesting. </p><p>Then, there's the noises of the cars. There's so many cabs, all identical in their sleek, black appearance, hurrying through the streets. And then there's the people hailing them, standing in the streets and raising their hands, calling out loudly.</p><p>"Taxi!" Yet another man yells, and you flinch instinctively, automatically turning around to look at him. He's nothing special, nothing dangerous. </p><p>In fact, you're probably the most dangerous person on this street. And yet, you remain hypervigilant. There's only the remnants of all that adrenaline in your system, but still, you remain awfully flighty. You are more than aware that soon it's going to wear off and you're going to be absolutely exhausted. </p><p>If you were any normal, entirely sane person, by now you would have been concerned at the lack of guilt. </p><p>But it wasn't like these deaths were accidental, or spur of the moment attacks. They weren't self-defense. </p><p>They were retribution. </p><p>They were violent acts of revenge designed over years and years. It was premeditated in every sense of the word. The only thing that could really, truly bring you warmth on those cold nights in the basement wasn't those scratchy blankets. It was the thought that one day you would take them out of this world, and that they would burn for everything they had done to you.</p><p>Over the years, the plan itself had taken a great many differing directions. You had planned versions where you would burn them alive, torture them for days on end, or even use something as simple as a poison to achieve your aims - that would have been remarkably easy considering that you did all the cooking. But ultimately, those fantasies had to be short-lived. They fell victim to practicality. Poison wasn't readily available, and the longer your step-family lived, the more likely they would be to escape or attract the attention of any neighbours. </p><p> It was your own version of Cinderella. And although you hadn't much planned for after the murders, you knew that if she got to rule a kingdom, then you would, too. </p><p>But first, you wanted to find a hotel room. One with nice blankets and decent heating and light walls that didn't remind you whatsoever of that basement. You'd been trawling for a while, ever conscious of the amount of cash you had, and the fact that eventually, you would have to gain some form of employment and find a more permanent housing situation. </p><p>The third hotel that you look at is the one you decide is just right. The first had been far too expensive, and the second one had looked like it shouldn't even be in business with how dilapidated it was. It's pretty enough, a grand white towering structure with flowers in all the windows and delicate borders around the windows. The price, which would be steep elsewhere, is decent for London. </p><p>You push the door open - it's a glass door with cursive, swirly golden writing emblazoned across it, and a little overhead bell jingles. The lady at the desk's head immediately turns your way, and she gives you a bright smile. </p><p>The entrance is spacious, but sparsely furnished, a few simple chairs and tables scattered around, but nobody's using them. Security seems relatively lax here, you can't see any cameras yet, and despite the hotel seeming acceptable to you, it's probably not one of the most popular establishments in London. </p><p>You approach the lady at the desk - your eyes immediately darting to her nametag. Emily. </p><p>"Hello, how can I help?" She asks, smiling. Her voice is dripping with that faux-sweetness that is innate to anybody working in customer service. It's cheery, and terribly fake - but you can't really bring yourself to feel any contempt for her lack of genuity. For her it's protection, and just a part of her job. It's not malicious. </p><p>"I'd like to book a room, please." You reply. </p><p>"Sure," She says, her fingers darting to the computer keyboard. "Do you know how long you'll be staying with us for?" </p><p>"A week, I think." You decide that it should be enough time for you to get everything together. </p><p>The top priorities for you now were evading the police and finding yourself some new documentation so that you could work, and move on with your life. </p><p>Emily nods, her finger tapping away and clicking for a few, silent moments. "We have you booked in room 125." She briefly ducks below the countertop, emerging with a keycard in hand. </p><p>It's blue, with a curvy lime green stripe swerving up through it. It's not the most impressive graphic design you've ever seen, and it doesn't really match the rest of the hotel, but it's good enough. You take it from her with a smile. "Thank you." </p><p>"Enjoy your stay!" She calls out after you, just as you've started to head further into the hotel. </p><p>You don't bother to acknowledge her comment. You simply keep walking, wandering around the bottom floor of the hotel lobby. There are these tiny, light-up signs plastered everywhere, giving the guests directions. It doesn't take you long to reach your room once you start following them. </p><p>Room one hundred and twenty five is incredibly boring. </p><p>The entrance-way is frustratingly narrow, with a cramped bathroom on your left, and a wardrobe on your right. It opens up to a relatively small space - a double bed against the left wall, a TV mounted just opposite it, a desk and some windows with terrible, thin curtains that do nothing to obscure the light. </p><p>It's so terribly basic, and the whole place smells like cleaning supplies - that alone makes you recoil. It brings you back to scrubbing each and every surface again and again. It makes your fingers twitch with the urge to just tear it all apart - to pull the curtains from their rails, knock the sparse furniture over and destroy it. </p><p>It feels so fake. It's all orchestrated to look appealing - but to you it appears bland and disingenuous. </p><p>The smell of bleach permeating from the bathroom makes you flinch. It's so sterile. There's no life in this place. There's nothing real here. </p><p>You have to constantly tell yourself over and over again that this is temporary. For a fleeting moment, you feel some kind of pain, a sharp pang of longing for your home - it had been a prison in every sense of the word once both of you parents were gone, but still it was familiar, the safe haven of your childhood where your mother would read you bedtime stories. </p><p>In your story, Cinderella would get her palace. Your happily ever after wouldn't be marred by the fact that a few people had died at your hands. </p><p>This hotel room is temporary - something to be used briefly and once you've moved on, never to be dwelled upon again. For now, you just have to lay low, and establish your new life here. The hotel room, with it's bland white and beige decor is hardly the fruition of all your planning. It's just another stepping stone. </p><p>It's only saving grace is the mattress and the heating. You're all too happy to kick your shoes off and lay face-down on the bed, letting all of the tension in your body go. The sheets, for all that they smell like cheap detergent, are petal-soft beneath your fingers. They're nothing like the ones in that cold, awful basement. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It doesn't take long for Sherlock to become a man obsessed.</p><p>They had first visited the residence of the victims - the scene of the crime. The Archer home had been destroyed, completely reduced to rubble and ash - even Verona Archer's car had been caught in the blaze, though the damage to the car was inconsequential next to the damage to the house and the lives lost within it. </p><p>What had once been a grand, elegantly decorated four-bedroom house was now barely standing. It's roof had caved in, and there were slate tiles strewn throughout the top floor and around the garden. Some beams of wood had been exposed, and many of the bricks had simply tumbled over, left with dark scorch marks over them. </p><p>It had been necessary to wear hazard gear within the house, and there was still one fire-engine waiting on the street, just in case the house were to be set aflame again. That was a common procedure, at the very least. A few neighbours would come out every once in a while, looking at the burnt remains of the Archer house in awe and horror. </p><p>There wasn't a whole lot actually left of the house. </p><p>Sherlock had torn his way down to the basement first, and quickly discerned what most of the items were - bookshelves, and lots of family photographs that didn't survive the blaze. But, most of the items in the basement were really irrelevant. It was the pile of scorched blankets that drew his attention. </p><p>"This is where the fire started, then, is it?" John asks, peering down at the blankets - they've melted together in some places, fusing to one another under the extreme heat. The entire house smells awful - the sickly scent of burnt human flesh mixed with gasoline - but the blankets smell awful, too. They were probably, back before they had been reduced mostly to ash, some sort of plasticy-material. </p><p>"Of course it is." Sherlock says, flitting around the basement and moving to inspect every little thing. "The Archers weren't the only ones living in the house. They were allowing someone to live in their basement." </p><p>"I thought they had four bedrooms?" </p><p>Sherlock shakes his head slightly. "Mm, no. One was Verona's closet. They had left their guest to sleep in the basement. The blankets are mostly polyester - they're well-used but they don't match anything upstairs. I think our guest has been down here for quite some time. The basement was a mess before the fire. Ms. Archer keeps things down here that she doesn't particularly like, but can't bring herself to throw away, just in case they become useful later." </p><p>"Wait, are you saying that the Archer girls - who, may I remind you, the mother being a grieving widow twice over, and her teenaged daughters - had been keeping somebody in their basement?" John asks, incredulously. He looks up from the pile of blankets and to Sherlock, in utter disbelief. </p><p>Sherlock scoffs. "Yes, John. That's exactly what I'm saying. Their guest was probably closely related to them. It's even possible that Verona had a third child. I'm almost certain now that our arsonist is a woman." </p><p>"A woman?" John frowns, "I thought you said most arsonists were men?" </p><p>"They are. They also tend to have a low intelligence - but she is neither a man, nor is she stupid. No, she's smart. She's smart and she's hurting right now. They're not going to find any evidence. She won't have left any. She's wanted this for a very, very long time." Sherlock whispers. "The rest of the house will be useless - the stairs are liable to give in if we try them. The basement was the only part she cared about. The burning was about obscuring her identity, not her crimes."</p><p>Naturally, the next place they turn to is the morgue. </p><p>All three bodies are already lain out on metal slabs when Sherlock and John enter, the latter wrinkling his nose. The house had, of course, smelled worse. But the actual scent of a charred corpse right in front of him was still incredibly sickening. </p><p>Molly greets them both with a smile, "Hi, Sherlock, - " </p><p>Sherlock brushes past her, his hands clasped behind his back. He circles around the bodies, his eyes darting over their wounds, their burnt, blistered skin, and the protruding bones. </p><p>The pictures had made Verona, Aubrey and Alora seem to be in even better condition than they were. </p><p>Their flesh had sunk, plastering itself to the bone in flaky pieces. They were more a mass of bloody body parts, sullen skin and ash than a real human body. There were a few persistent strands of platinum hair that had survived both the fire and the murder, clinging to their burnt scalps. </p><p>"That - oh, my god, the smell," John says between coughs, bringing a pale hand up to clasp it over the bottom half of his face. It was more a gesture of self-soothing than any actual attempt to block out the pungent fumes, but he does step back and momentarily avert his eyes. </p><p>Molly winces slightly, her cheery visage disturbed only slightly. "Yeah, I've tried pretty much everything. There's not much you can do for them. Ah, they died in their sleep, at least, so..." </p><p>"From the uh," John gestures to his throat, drawing a line across his neck horizontally with his pointer finger. </p><p>By far, the most disturbing part of the burnt cadavers is their necks. There's a grand, gaping hole in the charred flesh. It pulls away from itself, ribbons of burnt skin dangling into the throat cavity, and tiny pieces of ripped, hacked skin flaring upwards, soaked in crimson blood. They've been almost decapitated - their heads only very tenuously linked to their shoulders via the back of their necks. </p><p>It's much worse in real life - the crime scene photographs hadn't quite captured the depth of the cut. </p><p>"Yeah," Molly confirms with a grimace. </p><p>"No hesitation marks," Sherlock whispers. "Just as I thought. The twins were killed first. Aubrey, then Alora not soon after. Verona was saved for last - she was the culmination of all of this, the main target, if you will. Our perpetrator hated the twins, yes, but she hated Verona much more. You won't find any gasoline on their bodies. She put the gasoline on the floor, but not her victims. She wanted to obscure her identity but avoid damaging her work as much as possible." </p><p>"Okay, but we still don't know who the culprit is, or better yet, where they are." John says. </p><p>Sherlock shakes his head. "No, we know lots of things about her. Petite, early twenties. She hates the smell of disinfectant and she hates the cold even more. We can make the assumption that she may not even be Verona's daughter at all - perhaps one of those husbands had an affair, or more likely, a previous marriage that produced Verona's step-daughter." </p><p>"So, once again, the Archer girls were keeping a... step-daughter in their basement? And she killed them?" He questions. </p><p>"Oh, yes, she absolutely did." Sherlock grins. He sounds terribly fascinated, almost breathless - it's a kind of intrigue that John has only ever seen Moriarty produce in him. It's the kind of intrigue that never ends well. The kind that leaves Sherlock invigorated as he tries to unwrap every tiny mystery, whilst John is probably in some sort of danger. </p><p>"Right..." John's voice trails off, dying slowly as he watches Sherlock's eyes light up. </p><p>The consulting detective paces around the room, stalking around the bodies, grinning and muttering softly to himself. Moriarty's game is still afoot, but whilst they're waiting for his next move, Sherlock is going to indulge himself with another clever little side quest. </p><p>"She was smart. You're probably not going to find her - I mean I can tell she's probably gone to a major city, most likely London, given the proximity and her lack of resources. But, there's not going to be anything about her that's distinguishable from any other girl living in London." Sherlock announces. </p><p>"So that's it then. Case closed?" Molly asks, confusion colouring her tone as she folds her arms over her chest.</p><p>Sherlock pauses in his stride, and narrows his eyes, going so far as to look mildly affronted. "No, of course not. We're going to find her." </p><p>"Of course we are." John groans. "Was it not enough to just identify the unstable murder-arsonist lady?" </p><p>"No, John. Don't be silly." Sherlock scoffs. "We're going to find out everything we can about our Cinderella." </p><p>John frowns, looking to Molly who still looks equally puzzled. "Cinderella?" </p><p>"What else would you call a step-daughter mistreated by her step-mother and step-sisters?" </p><p>"I don't think that Cinderella killed her step-family and burnt their house down." John points out, sighing. "She's meant to go to a ball, meet a prince, not try to decapitate her family." </p><p>Sherlock dismisses John easily, "Perhaps not in the original version, no. But in this one? Absolutely."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. an invitation to the finest ball in all the land</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Sherlock Holmes becomes a man obsessed, James Moriarty becomes a man intrigued. That much, you are about to learn. </p><p>The first night in your hotel room, you allow yourself rest. The bed sheets are so soft, and sleeping on a mattress is infinitely more comfortable than the floor of a freezing basement. In many ways, despite your fervent dislike of the decor of the room based on its disingenuity, it is a decent opposite to your life before. </p><p>There is no blustering breeze blowing through dark, cracked bricks. There are no semi-dangerous power tools strewn over the floor. The sheets don't scratch at your skin. </p><p>You make sure, that night, to check yourself over for injuries. The fire was a major risk, you knew that much, and there had always been the chance that you could get caught in the blaze and burn alive, your body remaining trapped in the same house as those of your step-family's, and your freedom curbed by fire. </p><p>And you had come out unscathed. </p><p>There were no burns on you, not even the tiniest of markings from something as harmless as a stray ember. There was the chance you were suffering from some mild smoke-inhalation, but you felt completely fine, so you weren't too worried about that. </p><p>You wake up earlier than most people, but today, you don't have to get up and start sweeping or work on preparing breakfast. You feel absolutely, devastatingly victorious when there come no shouts of your name, no demands to get out of bed and fix the house. </p><p>Freedom feels so utterly delightful. </p><p>The only real downside is the lack of birdsong. The kind of birds that will chirp sweetly in the morning with you as their only audience do not thrive in inner-city London. Here, there is the eternal street-chatter, car noises, and taxi calling. </p><p>When you turn on the TV, having spent the early morning lounging in bed and enjoying the feeling of being wrapped up in soft sheets, the news is reporting live from your street. </p><p>There is a news reporter lady talking rapidly to the camera, a microphone clutched tightly in one hand. Behind her lie the remains of your parents' house. The blaze has long-since been extinguished, but there still remains one lone firetruck at the scene. The house itself has practically caved in on itself. Tiles of the roof and pieces of wood that had served as the infrastructure of the house lie lamely scattered around the lawn and driveway. It's a mess of ash and what had once been your childhood home.</p><p>The words she's saying are almost imperceivable. </p><p>Verona's car had caught fire after all. That alone gives you a smug sense of satisfaction. Just one more thing that she had valued had been stripped from her and desecrated. </p><p>"...The police have announced that they are launching a murder inquiry into the deaths of Verona Archer and her nineteen-year-old twin daughters Aubrey and Alora. Detective Inspector Lestrade, who will be heading the inquiry, has declined to comment, but sources have confirmed to us that Reichenbach hero Sherlock Holmes will be consulting." </p><p>You sit up, more interested in what she has to say than you had been just moments ago. The murder inquiry was no real surprise - you hadn't exactly tried to cover up the fact that the corpses had been hacked to bits. The mere thought of Sherlock Holmes - an allegedly brilliant civilian detective - on the case, did however shock you slightly. </p><p>Taking in a shuddering breath only calms you very slightly. </p><p>You had been so, so careful, and this had the potential to become your downfall. </p><p>The police, of course, would be on the case. You had been smart - burning everything in the house that had belonged to you. Any item that bore your name or image was to be reduced to ash, now scattered in the wind like black snow. </p><p>It was most fortuitous that Verona had caused you to have a life of solitude. Her daughters, of course, had been allowed to go out and socialise as much as they wished. Verona herself would attend dinner parties, and had wormed her way into any and every social scene that she could. Everybody had adored the three of them - Verona Archer, with her perfectly curled blonde hair, pink lips, and her darling twin daughters that were the spitting image of her. </p><p>That was a social life that you hadn't been permitted. You had been incredibly resentful at the time. Your parent's families flaked away from you once they had both died - there was nobody who cared to reach out and check on their only child. There was no way of being certain whether or not they would even remember that you had been living in the Archer household. </p><p>It was rather unlikely there were even any neighbours that even knew of your existence. That obscurity would hopefully keep you safe. </p><p>It's mid-morning by the time you eventually leave the hotel room. You've decided that today you're going to buy some new clothes, get some food, and look for a job that won't ask too many questions, all whilst keeping your head down and staying away from any cameras. The employment will probably come in the form of a seedy pub, which does invoke some kind of revulsion within you. </p><p>You have to remind yourself that it won't be for long. This is all temporary - once you're able to acquire some forged documentation you'll be in the clear. This is just one step closer to your happy ever after. You've already endured the hardest part and come out stronger for it. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Lestrade has relocated his board, featuring pictures, evidence, and lots of colourful string and thumbtacks, to a bigger room in the police station. The board sits front and center of the room, and is the primary focus of the room's occupants. </p><p>The full team has been gathered, all congregating in this one room to try to work cohesively. </p><p>"Listen, we're under a lot of scrutiny on this case." Lestrade says, grimacing as he looks between his taskforce and the board. </p><p>"And that's your fault." Donovan sniffs. "If you hadn't brought in Sherlock bloody Holmes then I bet that the media wouldn't even care." </p><p>"Right, right," John tries to intervene. "Let's just look at the evidence, yeah? And try to solve the case?" </p><p>As usual, she seems less than thrilled with John's presence, regarding him less than a teammate and more as a tag-along that Sherlock had somehow procured. </p><p>"So what do we actually know then?" Donovan asks, staring unrelentingly at the board. </p><p>Sherlock steps forward, pinning another picture to the board, next to the Archer girls. "This is our culprit. She's Verona's step-daughter, the child of a previous marriage of Verona's second husband." </p><p>There she is - there you are. It's an old photograph, ridiculously outdated from when you had been in high school. It looks terribly out of place next to the pictures of the Archers when they had been alive. Theirs are recent, good quality images - Verona's had been just the night before she was killed. The twins were impossible to distinguish from one another. All of them had the luxury of smiling at the camera, of being happy. </p><p>Lestrade takes over. "Her father died almost a decade ago in a car accident, and her actual mother passed away a while before that from health complications. The dad remarried not too long after his wife's death, so Verona becomes her step-mum, and the twins become step-sisters. She's a few years older than the twins, and we have no clue whatsoever what she had been doing since she finished high school." </p><p>"And we have no clue where she is now?" Anderson asks. </p><p>"None wha-" Lestrade begins. </p><p>Sherlock cuts him off. "No, that's not true. She'll be in a major city, most likely London. She'll either be keeping a low profile, or have a new identity set up already. She will have changed since high school - probably a hair cut, hair dye, or even tattoos, though that's unlikely." </p><p>"Right, I'll tell the officers on duty to keep an eye out for her." Lestrade nods, "Though I don't think a picture from years ago is going to help very much." </p><p>Donovan frowns slightly, her eyebrows tugging downwards slightly. She bites her lip for a second, her eyes darting between the pictures of the Archer girls when they were alive, their bodies, and their possible murderer. "Do we have a motive yet? Are we sure that this couldn't be a stalker who killed the Archers to kidnap their step-sister? I just can't really see a girl who Verona had raised, who loved the twins as if they were really her sisters, just turning on them like that." </p><p>"That's been bothering me too." Lestrade says. "I mean, maybe she felt like an outsider, but -" </p><p>"Of course she felt like an outsider." Sherlock says. "Verona took away her step-daughter's bedroom and had her sleep in the basement, so that she could store her fur coats upstairs. The step-daughter would be banned from furthering her education, and served as practically a live-in maid. It's incredibly obvious, really." </p><p>"They kept her as a maid? In the basement?" Lestrade's jaw hangs open slightly, his tone utterly disbelieving. </p><p>"Of course they did. All we have to do now is find her." Sherlock says, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Come on, John. If Cinderella's looking for a story, then we'll help her write one." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>By the time you get back to your hotel room, your confidence has been bolstered immeasurably. You'd rather cautiously kept away from the more densely populated, camera-filled streets, and remained in more seedy, shady areas where nobody would really care too much even if they did know what you'd done. </p><p>In that time, you'd secured clothes, food, and you'd scouted out a few places that would probably be willing to employ you and not ask too many questions, though you weren't under the impression that they would pay you particularly well. </p><p>It felt so intoxicating to be completely and utterly free. You had no constraints any more. There were no Aubrey and Alora to hound you when you went shopping, and Verona was no longer around to tell you to be grateful that she even kept you around. Total, complete independence was one of the finest things you had ever encountered. </p><p>Perhaps the next few months would be rough whilst you were evading the police and establishing your new life. But ultimately, you were free. From freedom, your happily ever after would be borne. </p><p>Hastily, you put the food away - you'd bought simple things that could be stored in the mini-fridge - and pull the clothes on to hangers in the wardrobe. It doesn't feel like home, but oddly, you're glad for that. </p><p>Home had been burnt down, reduced to ashes by your own hand. In due time, you'd build a new one if you had to, and it most certainly would not resemble this hotel room. </p><p>Once you've finished packing everything away, you try to allow yourself to relax, but for some reason, you feel utterly unable to. </p><p>For some, indecipherable reason, you feel watched. </p><p>Instantly, your eyes narrow and you stalk around your hotel room, checking below your bed and in the bathroom. There's nobody hiding in either places, and you know that the wardrobe is empty, too. You're utterly alone here, and yet, you certainly do not feel that way. Rather, it feels like there are eyes at your back, scrutinising your every move. </p><p>Your next course of action is to check out the window. There's nobody there. Still, you draw the curtains closed tightly. It does little to block out the light or offer you any true sense of security. You're on edge - all of a sudden the shadows in the room feel too dark, too ominous, and it feels like the temperature has dropped several degrees. </p><p>There's a deep paranoia settling into your bones, and slowly, but surely, your heart rate is beginning to rise, to the point where your heart is rapidly thundering against your ribcage. </p><p>There has to be something you'd missed. </p><p>Most people hadn't developed the acute senses that you had. They simply weren't as perceptive, and they had no reason to be. Your distinct awareness of everything around you had been developed over years and years of maltreatment. </p><p>Just the slightest movement could tell you a thousand different things. Noises, from the screech of a heeled shoe against wooden floor to the mutterings of your step-mother, were a vital part of determining how safe you felt. Sight, too, was important. You could recognise just from the way Verona positioned her handbag if she would be in the mood to let you eat that night. </p><p>You had learnt to trust your senses. And right now, they were declaring that you had missed something - that there was something totally and completely off about this room. </p><p>Quickly, your eyes are traversing over every tiny little thing. From the doorframe, to the curtains, to the TV, to the desk -</p><p>The desk. </p><p>That's what had changed. The sugar packets and TV remote had been pushed to the outskirts of the desk to make room for something that hadn't been there before. </p><p>It's in the centre of the desk, and your jaw drops open slightly just at the sight of it. A bolt of ice rushes down your spine and suddenly you're afraid. There had been no fear when you killed three people and set their house aflame. But this, this felt like a threat. </p><p>Resting idly, almost innocently on the desk, is a heeled glass shoe. </p><p>It glitters prettily under the few rays of sunlight that escape from the curtains, but its mere presence feels insidious. You want to stumble away from it, dash out of the hotel and run for your life. But you don't. Rather, you stalk closer, creeping towards it, your eyes wide and unblinking. </p><p>The glasswork is pretty. It's delicate - carefully made, with intricate spirals running up the heel. It's relatively transparent, with a slight blue tint to it, enough to make it appear more frosted. It looks about your size, but it's far too nice to even attempt to wear. It's the kind of shoe you would have relentlessly lusted after as a child. A real life glass slipper. </p><p>And yet, neither the pretty glasswork or whether it is actually wearable are the primary thoughts on your mind. </p><p>Right next to the shoe, lying so innocuously on the desk, is a little white note. It almost resembles a business card, with a swooping golden border around the edges. If the shoe felt like a threat, then this feels even worse. </p><p>Inscribed, in shocking black ink on the bone-white card - </p><p>HELLO, CINDERELLA. WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO TO THE BALL?</p><p>Now you really do feel like crying - like yelling out and destroying everything around you, smashing the glass slipper and burning your dreams just as you'd burnt the house down. You collapse to the floor, one hand clutching at your chest, grappling onto your torso like it was a lifeline. </p><p>You had been cautious. Cameras had been avoided at all costs. You'd even made sure that there would be no up to date pictures of you available for you to be identified from. You had done everything right. </p><p>It was so, awfully unfair. All of a sudden, that tenuous, delightful freedom had been ripped out from under you and torn to ribbons. And you had no idea by whom. </p><p>There was somebody out there who knew. Somebody who knew what you had done, and worse still, knew where you were. Somebody who could very, very easily let themselves into your hotel room. </p><p>Last night, you had slept so soundly, totally unaware that you had already been compromised. </p><p>You had no idea who could possibly do this - who could want to torment you in this way. Nobody came to mind. There should have been nobody that even cared to look for you, beyond the police hunting down a criminal. Logically, there should have been no way for you to be found. All of your bases had been carefully covered. </p><p>Worst of all is that you have no way of fathoming what it even means. Is it a threat? A taunt? </p><p>You simply have no idea, and you're not inclined to even want to find out. It's entirely possible that you've burnt your way out of one cage just to be put in another. All because there's somebody out there who's smarter than you, who has somehow been able to undo every precaution you put into place. </p><p>Taking in a deep breath, you lower your head into your hands and beg yourself to just think. </p><p>This could be a threat. You have no idea who would want to threaten you, and you have no leverage against them. </p><p>Rather quickly, you come to the conclusion that for now, you will simply play along with whatever they want. It's the easiest option - if they'd found you here then they could potentially find you anywhere. This way, you can dig for as much information on them as possible. </p><p>Playing along could mean being extorted, or made into a pawn. Wretchedly, it threatened to put a stranglehold on your freedom. </p><p>But, you'd broken out of the role of the pawn before. </p><p>If they were threatening you, then you would play along, until you found the right time to burn them to ash, reduce them to cinders that could easily be swept away. You were already well on your way transitioning from pawn to queen, and you were absolutely determined not to let anything derail you. </p><p>This time, you wouldn't run away from the blaze. You would gleefully watch it consume anybody who dared stand against you. </p><p>If reaching the fabled happily ever after meant starting a few fires, then that's what you would do. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There's a deep sense of relief when you wake up and find that nothing's changed. The glass slipper is still resting threateningly next to the card it came with upon the desk, but you haven't received any additional gifts. Not yet, anyway. You cannot simply throw caution to the wind - now you must be more careful than ever. </p><p>Somebody has discovered exactly who you are, and they know exactly where you are. It's quite possibly the worst position for you to be in. The last thing you need is anybody else recognising you. </p><p>That morning, you creep out of your hotel room, dressed in some of the clothes you had bought the day prior. You were very careful not to choose anything too flashy or that would stick in people's minds. For all intents and purposes, you needed to become a shadow, to fade from memory and hide in plain sight. </p><p>Once again, you will be trawling the shadier areas. These are the places bathed in darkness and defined by hidden bloodshed. These people have little regard for the law-abiding. Being amongst them will probably help keep you concealed. </p><p>They won't allow the police to get anywhere near them. There will never be any security cameras. There will only be secrecy and that is where you'll thrive. It's where you will hide, until the press has blown over and your step-family's murders have been relegated to cold cases. </p><p>You stalk out of the hotel, ever wary of everybody that you interact with. </p><p>Any one of these people in the lobby could have left you the slipper and the note. They're the ones with the most opportunity. However, most of the guests here, from what you can reasonably guess, are disenfranchised or senile. It could have even been the lady at the desk, Emily, you think her name had been. </p><p>You take to the streets like a duck to water. You decide to walk along a route with less traffic, working your way through maze-like alleys rather than go near the roads. There's almost no cameras here, and occasionally you will see a metal clasp on the brick walls that perhaps, at some time had held a camera, but it had since been taken down or torn off the wall. </p><p>Unfortunately, these places are rife with unsavoury people. Realistically, you probably weren't the only person here that was on the run from the police. </p><p>Your methodology of travelling only by the shadiest routes brought you past a myriad of seedy little pubs. You'd taken a look at some of these places yesterday. They seemed like as good a place as any to start looking for a job. The people there weren't likely to ask too many questions. </p><p>Despite having probably done crimes more morally reprehensible than any of the pub patrons, there's a disparity in how you view yourself compared to how you view them. They're stationed below you - they are just another stepping stone to your future. Among them isn't where you belong. </p><p>The way you spend the day is rather boring - doing a more in depth evaluation of all the places nearby that would probably be willing to employ you, mentally cataloguing the pros and cons of each place. It's incredibly dull, but you have to remind yourself that it's necessary. Right now, you don't have much other choice. </p><p>By the time the sun is beginning to set and dusk is beginning to fall over London, you've found a few places you like the look of. They're easy to get to, and just seedy enough that they may not care about your lack of documentation. That, of course, had been destroyed in the fire, and even if it hadn't, you weren't about to use your real name. </p><p>Once it starts to get darker, you head back to your hotel room, half-starved. You're simultaneously eager to get back just to eat, and nervous that you could have been left another message. </p><p>You practically fly through the lobby, hurriedly following the signs back to room one hundred and twenty five. </p><p>You make your way down the hallway, pausing cautiously at your door. </p><p>There, hung on the door handle is one of the hotel's do not disturb signs. You hadn't been the one to place it there. </p><p>Immediately, you're put on edge. The tiny, rectangular blue and green key card feels rather heavy in your hand. Your fingers twitch, and your eyes narrow. Once again, something is very, very off. </p><p>You press your ear to the door. There's nothing - no noise that you can discern. Cautiously, you swipe the card, and you tug the door handle down, but you don't push it all the way open. Not yet. You wait another moment before doing so, your eyes immediately flying to check the bathroom before you even truly step inside. </p><p>The room looks deserted, overcast by shadows. There's a deep anticipation stirring within you as you step into the hotel room and let the door close behind you. </p><p>It's rather dark - the shadows all move in the dying sunlight, and there's too many places for someone to hide. </p><p>"Hello, Cinderella." A voice calls out from the darkness, crooning and smooth. </p><p>In a second, your hand has slammed down on the lightswitch. The lights flicker for a moment, but they enable you to see him. </p><p>There's a man lounging in the chair to the desk, looking directly at you. His legs are outstretched in front of him, and he's passing the glass slipper between his hands. </p><p>You'd never seen him before. He's older than you, perhaps in his early thirties, with slicked back dark hair, an expensive-looking grey suit, and eyes that stare straight into your soul.</p><p>"Did you like my gift?" He asks, sounding vaguely amused. His dark, all-consuming, black eyes dart briefly down to the glass shoe in his hands. He strokes a fingertip along the glasswork intimately. </p><p>"Who are you?" The question tumbles from your mouth before you can even think to stop it. </p><p>He rolls his eyes. "I believe that I asked you a question first. You're welcome to call me Moriarty. But you, Cinderella, have been a very naughty girl." </p><p>This Moriarty man is rather changeable, you think. His annoyance had quickly faded to something that sounded horrendously like glee. You're left floundering for a response - there's nothing clever for you to say. </p><p>"Have I?" You find yourself saying, rather absently, like you were making an off-hand remark about the weather or something equally insignificant. It feels meaningless to refute him. You know exactly what he's referring to. </p><p>"Oh come on," Moriarty says. His voice is almost playful - and it's now that you place his accent. Irish. "You know you have. Killing your wicked step-mother and ugly step-sisters? Most people would call that terrible. Psssh, I'm not so boring." He waves it off, dismissing what you had done gut-wrenchingly easy. </p><p>You flinch backwards, your back colliding with the door. "Oh?" You manage to choke out. </p><p>"No, no. I'd call that impressive," He says in a sing-song voice. He seems so cheery, and he's practically grinning at you. "You see, most people don't quite gather the guts to kill their own families. And when it's a woman - well, they tend to go for poison. Bit of a cop out, don't you think? But no, not you. That would be too boring. Go on, Cinderella, tell me how it felt." </p><p>"Am I...being blackmailed?" You don't think you've ever felt so confused and worried at the same time. This man - the man who had figured it all out and found you seems to be dually comical and threatening. You can't really discern what is an appropriate reaction. </p><p>"Only if you'd like to be." He replies with an innocent shrug of his shoulders. "Just tell me something, will you?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. of rats and pumpkins</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once again, you're left at a loss for words. This man is a mystery to you in every conceivable way, wrapped in both the literal shadows of your hotel room and the ones that are metaphoric - those shadows are the ones on his soul, the blemishes of having perpetrated something horrific and having enjoyed it. </p><p>"It felt good." The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. He's the first person that you've been able to talk to about this, and it makes you feel betrayed that you would so easily give up something so incriminating.</p><p>Moriarty leans back further in the chair. He's completely at ease - there's no glimmer of doubt in his dark eyes. "Go on - more. Don't be simple. Tell me everything." </p><p>Your shoulders sag slightly, and you practically have to prop yourself up against the door to remain upright. The thought enters your head, then, that you could try to leave. Strangely, you don't want to. "I felt victorious. They had always been there, treating me like I was less than them, like I was made to serve." Your voice comes out as a hiss, so horribly acidic, so venomous. "It felt liberating." </p><p>You feel very much like you're confessing, whispering the worst things you've ever done to a priest through a confessional booth. Though, you're certain that this is no man of God. </p><p>His lips quirk upwards, and his eyes widen. He looks utterly delighted, like a child presented with their favourite dessert. "Oh, isn't that nice. No regret, I take it? Even though you hacked them to pieces and let them burn?"  Moriarty sounds almost breathless - like he's dizzy, or intoxicated. </p><p>"None at all." </p><p>And in an instant Moriarty understands why Sherlock wants to find you so badly. You're terribly interesting, enrapturing even. He'd seen the crime scene photos. The destruction alone was fabulous, a true marvel to look at. But you...you make it so much better. So much more intriguing. </p><p>"Oh how lovely." He breathes, discarding the glass slipper and placing it back on the table so he could clasp his hands together. "So, Cinderella gets sick of the evil step-family and burns them to ash." Moriarty sounds rather whimsical, like he's musing, but his eyes are fixated solely on you. </p><p>"I'd prefer if you didn't call me Cinderella, you know. I have a name." You say rather boldly. You've gathered enough courage to stand on your own now, no longer relying on the door for support. You stare him down, fire in your eyes. </p><p>Moriarty looks bemused, a single eyebrow tugging upwards. "Yes, I know your name, Cinderella. In fact, I know everything about you." </p><p>"I'd gathered that much," You retort. "I just want to know why. Why bother?" </p><p>He tuts at you, unwinding his hands and wagging a finger at you like you're a disobedient child. You don't feel chided, but you do feel a stab of fear. "Because, Cinderella," His voice is warm, melodic, the calm before the storm. "You're in my way." His voice lowers a few octaves, and is bordering between glacial and a growl. Either way, it feels like a threat. </p><p>All that confidence within you threatens to leave, to evaporate and leave you to be a frightened little girl, cowering before the whims of a man wrapped in shadows - a man whom is not just at ease in darkness, but revels in it. "In your way?" </p><p>"Oh yessssss," He says, all happy and cheerful again. "You see, I have plans for Sherlock Holmes. Plans. And he's gone and gotten himself infatuated with finding you. I mean, don't get me wrong, you're a lovely lady - I'm a fan of your work, I really am - but, you see, I don't want him distracted." </p><p>"Believe me, I'm doing all that I can to stay away from him and the rest of the police." You reply sourly. The news reporter lady had announced that he would be investigating, and once you'd done some reading on him, you'd been less than thrilled. </p><p>Moriarty wags his finger at you again, chidingly. "Well, Cinderella. How about I do you one better? Rather than detract from my plans, how about you become a part of them, hm? Join me." </p><p>You can't help but frown. This man, with his sweet, crooning irish accent and his dark eyes, is probably more dangerous than you have ever been. "And what does joining you entail?" </p><p>He breaks out into a grin again. "Ah, I have plans. Plans beyond your wildest imaginations." He replies vaguely, seeming rather jovial about his lack of transparency. </p><p>Deep down, you're not even sure if you want to know. This is a man who has managed to find you. You're sure that even if you ran he could find you again if he was so inclined to try. "And what if I don't want to join you?" </p><p>Moriarty's expression turns thunderous, just as dark as the shadows he's bathed in. His dark eyes dart down to your chest and you follow his line of sight. </p><p>On your chest, directly above your heart is a little, almost innocuous red dot. A sniper. Somewhere out there, there was a person with a gun, and you were directly in their line of fire. </p><p>It's too dark now to even see where it's coming from. At any moment, your life could have been cut short before it could even begin via a bullet to the heart. You stagger backwards. All of a sudden you feel trapped, caged, and it's like you're back in that god-damn basement and the door is locked. Just how powerful is this Moriarty man?</p><p>You find yourself able to answer your own question. Too powerful. And that made him awfully dangerous.</p><p>"If you refuse, then Cinderella goes bye-bye." He says. "Are you going to refuse, Cinderella?" </p><p>"No, no," You gasp out, almost dropping to your knees in relief as the red dot vanishes. </p><p>"Oh, good. I'd hate to kill you, really, I would." Moriarty shrugs. He's so relaxed, lounging around in that chair, as if your life hadn't been almost ended moments ago. As if he hadn't almost ordered your execution. "As much as I love grim fairy tales, I would hate to see yours end here." </p><p>"So what now?" You manage to sound much more put together than you feel. </p><p>"Well, you certainly can't stay here." He says, dark eyes wandering over your hotel room. He looks incredibly unimpressed by it. "No, Sherlock would find you far too easily. You're going to be part of the game." </p><p>You falter. "Are you going to kill me?" </p><p>Moriarty looks offended. "No. That would be a blatant waste of potential and entertainment. Are you afraid to die, or something?" </p><p>"I'm afraid that I won't get to live the life that I killed and burnt for." You hiss, before recoiling at your own words. This isn't a man you should be threatening, and you regret the words the instant they leave your mouth. </p><p>He grimaces, but he doesn't seem affected by the fact that you had literally hissed at him. Rather, he looks almost confused by your answer. "The fear of death is such a human weakness, don't you think? I wouldn't worry, Cinderella. You know - at first, I was worried that Sherlock had gone and gotten himself obsessed with the first case he found, like the way a gosling will imprint on the first thing it sees once it hatches. I'm rather glad he at least chose something interesting to become obsessed with." </p><p>"Oh?" </p><p>He doesn't really acknowledge your comment, but his dark, pitch-black eyes run over you again, scrutinising you. "Well then, Cinderella. I think that we have places to be. Plans to put into motion. Pumpkins to turn to carriages. You know how it goes." </p><p>You frown, feeling a shiver run down your spine. "What does that mean?" </p><p>"It meeeeeeans that we're leaving. Right now." Moriarty says excitedly. He looks almost maniacal then - gleeful and insane in equal amounts. </p><p>Suddenly, you really, really do not want to leave. As much as you disliked the hotel room, you were certain that it would be preferable to going anywhere with Moriarty. You couldn't be sure of much, but you knew that he was powerful enough to track you down before the police could, and that he was capable of killing you at any moment. </p><p>"Where are we going?" Your voice emerges as a cheap caricature of bravery. That fire in your eyes is beginning to burn itself out, leaving only embers and ash in its wake. </p><p>Moriarty stands, jovially brushing a piece of lint off the shoulder of his jacket before stalking towards you. It had been hard to tell when he was lounging around, but now you could discern that he was taller than you. He seems to casual, so nonchalant, as he walks towards you. </p><p>You stumble backwards slightly, and the back of your head collides with the door uncomfortably. There's no escape for you here. </p><p>He's much too close now, bringing with him the faint, familiar scent of fire and brimstone. Moriarty grins down at you, watching you writhe and struggle to regain your confidence under his gaze. Slowly, he brings one of his hands up to cup your jaw, the pads of his fingers softly trailing over your cheek. </p><p>There's nothing in his eyes - no speck of light or real, human emotion. </p><p>Those tiny, dying embers are relit with a fury as you comprehend the sensation of his skin against yours. That fire in your eyes is back, and you're glowering up at him, trapped between his chest and the door. </p><p>So incredibly focused are you on glaring at him and conveying pure malice with your eyes, that you don't notice that his other hand is holding something. By the time you do, it's much too late. </p><p>The last thing you remember is the grin on his face, a little black canister in his hand, and a cool, chemical mist descending on your face. After that, came the darkness. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When you awake, it's not in any place familiar to you. At first, your vision is completely blurry, and you can only comprehend the world in abstract fragments of light and dark. It takes a few moments for you to blink it away. </p><p>Confusedly, you sit up. You had been lain on top of the white sheets on a king size bed in a room you didn't recognise. The room's rather plain, far grander than your hotel room, but still lacking in personality. Everything's so white - the bedding, the walls, the blinding light above your head. There's no windows. It's akin to a prison cell, though thankfully it's not cold.</p><p>It takes a moment for the panic to set in. In an instant, it's truly occured to you that you are not meant to be here. All those memories of today come flooding back to you. </p><p>That man, Moriarty, had known you, known your crimes, and he had brought you here. You had been taken, plucked from your hotel room, and every fleeting freedom stolen away from you. </p><p>Rapidly, you scramble off the bed, stumbling your way around the room. First, you fumble towards the wardrobe, mistaking the walk-in closet for the door, and tugging the ornately decorated doors open only to reveal a mountain of fine, elegant clothes that, horrifyingly, look to be in your size.</p><p> In shock, you slam the wardrobe closed and stumble over to another part of the room, finally locating what you presume to be the real doors. Repeatedly, you yank the door handle, tugging it incessantly. It doesn't even budge, nor does it shudder when you abandon that tactic and start hurling your weight at it, barging your shoulder into the door over and over again. Both strategies are futile. </p><p>"Oh my god," You breathe out, chest heaving. There's a deep, deep panic within you. </p><p>Your entire life, you had been somewhat of a planner. Of course, there were certain aspects of your life that you liked to leave up to spontaneity, but on the whole, you had carefully considered all of your options. </p><p>Everything had gone towards the grand plan for happily ever after - a happily ever after where you would be free from your step-family, forge your own life, find prince charming and rule a kingdom. Those had been the goals. </p><p>The mere possibility of something like this happening was never once accounted for. You had cautiously considered the police and their forensic work, but Moriarty simply could not have been foreseen. </p><p>By this point, you've started to bite your lip and you're rapidly descending into a frenzy. Your arms pound against the door, desperate for some help, or some attention. You just want the door to open, to collapse - to splinter to shards of wood beneath your fists and the sheer force of your anger. There's no getting out. There's not even any windows to attempt to smash - and there's no means for which you to try to determine the time.</p><p>You want to step back, to consider, to plan, but you feel almost dizzy, like Moriarty's put a blindfold over your eyes and spun you around just to see which way you would stumble. There's a pit in your stomach - it's the cool, blistering bite of dread. </p><p>This wasn't meant to happen. Not to you. You had worked so hard, endured so much, and now you were meant to be free. This was no freedom at all - this was just a different jailer and a cushier cell. </p><p>You cry out in frustration, slamming your fist down against the door once more before collapsing to the floor. Your throat feels stripped raw, and your hands hurt - there's a red flush covering your knuckles, and it hurts when you unfurl your fingers from the fist they were clamped in just seconds ago. </p><p>Then, there's an almost imperceptible click. </p><p>The door is pushed open, and Moriarty saunters in. He's so utterly, infuriatingly carefree. He looks down at you, at your half-collapsed form, your wild-eyes and your red, injured knuckles in distaste, as if you're some kind of fucking inconvenience and he hasn't orchestrated your presence here. You're slumped over, your chest is heaving, and you look near feral with anger. </p><p>"Well Cinderella, that's no way to greet your fairy godmotherrrrrr," He practically sings. It feels mocking - it probably is. You haven't had the misfortune of being acquainted with Moriarty for very long, but you're smart enough to determine that seeing you reduced to this state is probably fun for him. </p><p>"Fuck off," You spit back, practically hissing at him in retaliation. </p><p>You feel very much like a wounded animal - a cowering, bleeding gazelle placed before a lion. Though, the two of you are much more dangerous than any animal. Moriarty is dangerous, seemingly half-crazed, but you're determined. There has been fire in your blood for your entire life. </p><p>Moriarty laughs, a chuckle tearing forth from his throat. He grins then, peering down at you, and that distaste is replaced with amusement. It feels like you're being observed in a two-way mirror. You're being watched, "No, no I won't. Cinderella, the way I see it is that you don't have much of a choice." </p><p>"A choice in what?" You demand, any semblance of playing nice having faded. </p><p>"Joining in, of course. Welcome to the game, Cinderella." </p><p>You frown, your voice nearly a snarl. "Your game with Sherlock Holmes? That's what this is? My freedom as part of your game?" You stagger to your feet - he's still looking down at you, he has a minor height advantage there, but the difference has been lessened. You feel rather inclined to lunge at him, and he probably knows that by now. </p><p>Moriarty clicks his tongue, shaking his head in disappointment. "No, no. Our game with Sherlock Holmes. That's what it is now. He's after you, and there's no way you can escape the two of us." </p><p>"And I'm going to do what exactly?" </p><p>"You're going to be my daring, devious accomplice." He grins. "Sherlock's got John, and I have you, Cinderella." </p><p>Agitatedly, you jab a finger at his chest. "Don't call me that." </p><p>"Oooh, feisty." He teases, feigning shock. "So, what's it going to be? Me and our game? You could try to escape - Sherlock could catch up to you, or I could have a bullet put right through your skull." </p><p>Immediately, you stagger backwards. Your mind is racing at a mile a minute - every single thought you manage to produce is incoherent and garbled. There's no time to plan, there's no time to even consider the possible courses of action. And still, your knuckles are throbbing. There had never, ever been a time where you had prepared yourself for a situation like this.</p><p>"Really, I don't want you uncooperative, or worse, boring. Join, play, have fun, or try to make it on your own and risk death. I've gone through the trouble of bringing you here, so at least do me the favour of making it worth my while." He says. "C'monnnn, Cinders. Answer me. Say yes, won't you?" </p><p>Surely, it was better to endure the devil you knew, if only in a vague sense, than brave the one you didn't. </p><p>Moriarty was by far a lesser demon than imprisonment or death. </p><p>"You." You answer through gritted teeth. </p><p>"Oh, good." He remarks off-handedly. He says it like he expected it - it was the most probable outcome, after all. He knew you to be a planner, you were the type to wait it out before striking. His dark eyes dart down to your knuckles, eyeing the scrapes over them and the torn skin. "Let's get those taken care of, my darling Cinderella." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock's pacing back through 221B Baker street, practically wearing a hole into the carpet, his eyebrows furrowed into a frown, and his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He's been acting like this for the past few minutes, storming through the apartment in long strides. He's not even doing anything - he's just walking around, looking menacing and thinking, apparently. </p><p>John watches on, tiredly. His gaze is fixed to the laptop screen, but he'll occasionally look up at Sherlock, just to check on him. </p><p>John suddenly sits up straighter, "Lestrade's emailed. Some footage, or something." He calls out. </p><p>In an instant, Sherlock has abandoned his pacing and rushed to John's side, peering over his shoulder at the screen. "Well, go on." </p><p>"It's, ah, it's from one of the hotels we thought would be in her comfort zone." John said, scrolling through the email. There's a series of attachments, all titled with dates and times - presumably the footage Lestrade had been referencing. </p><p>Sherlock scoffs. "We can rule out anything with footage. She'd never choose anywhere with CCTV. Not yet, at least. Come on, John. Don't you know her at all?" </p><p>John purses his lips, glancing briefly up at Sherlock. "Well, no, I don't. And you don't either. You've never met the woman, and yet -" </p><p>"I know her mind inside out." Sherlock states. </p><p>John sighs, "I was going to say that you have an unhealthy fixation on finding her." </p><p>"That's the job, isn't it?" Sherlock cocks his head. </p><p>"Yes - but my point is, I think you're bored. You've been bored ever since Moriarty walked out of the picture and now you're looking for somebody to replace him. She's just been the first person that's been smart enough to evade you."</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. from rags to riches</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Living with Moriarty is not for the faint of heart. He's a strange man - and you often find yourself becoming victim to moments of intrigue. There's something intrinsically dark within him, but you're currently inclined to believe that it was created out of a need for fun, for entertainment, and not out of hardship. </p><p>It was a frenzied moment in which you agreed to join him. </p><p>Truthfully, you had no idea what being a part of his game entailed. You had only seen bits and pieces on the news. </p><p>Moriarty had taken you to what was apparently a grandiose mansion. It was terribly grand - much larger, more airy and ornate than your house had been. Everything within it seems so fine, opulent, even. </p><p>It's never cold, which you're thankful for. </p><p>Moriarty leads you through a series of hallways, and down some winding, twisting stairway, and to his study. He seems fond of the finer things in life, decking out the mansion with what you assume are expensive pieces. You see a few men milling around, all dressed in suits. You think about calling out for them, getting their attention, but you quickly realise that these are men who follow Moriarty's orders. </p><p>He's got all of these people, these dark-looking, brawny bodyguards who do his bidding. They're just more puppets, and he's the one tugging on their strings. You have to wonder if they have a role in the plan, too. If they are pieces in the game - and if you're to become like them.</p><p>The worst part is probably that you don't know how - you have no idea how he's controlling them. Or why, for that matter. Really, you have so, so many questions, all revolving around Moriarty. Who he is, what he wants, why he wants it and how he plans to achieve it are all absolute mysteries. </p><p>His study is airy, with this large desk and leather chair behind it. There's bookshelves - none of them hold any books, though. Rather, they contain what, at first glance, you think are odd knick-knacks. There's all manner of things - shoes, a lipstick case, purses, wallets. They look rather out of place, considering the fancy, high-end decor of the rest of the house. </p><p>They're just random, every-day objects, but they're displayed in pride of place in his study. </p><p>Moriarty seems to catch your confused look at them, and he grins proudly. "Trophies." He says, by way of explanation. </p><p>"Oh?" You swallow, suddenly unable to tear your eyes from them. </p><p>You don't really need to be told the rest - they're trophies from people. Presumably, victims of his. </p><p>"Oh, come on." He scoffs, playfully. He stalks closer to you, closing the door to the study behind him. You still feel rather on edge, but some of that feralty and desperation has subsided. </p><p>You want to be free, no matter what. That's always going to remain the same. But for now, acceptance is best. Moriarty has all of this, all of those men on strings, and he's determined to play a game with Sherlock Holmes. All you have to do is play along until he gets bored and you can be cut loose. Hopefully, at least. That is the work of a whole host of assumptions. </p><p>Nothing is assured here. </p><p>Moriarty approaches you, looming over you. Almost tenderly, he places his hands on your shoulders, encouraging you to stumble backwards and perch on his desk. He's so close, and you have to suppress a shiver. Your legs hit the desk and you shimmy yourself up so you can sit on the very edge of the desk. You're torn between fixating on Moriarty and his dark eyes, or the rows of trophies. </p><p>His hands drop from your shoulders to your hands. He inspects them almost clinically, turning your slightly shaking hands over. It feels strangely thrilling to be touched like this - intimately, carefully. Like you're precious. </p><p>And yet, it contrasts with every scrap of information you've come to know about him. His fingers glide over yours - his skin is warm, and he feels rather human like this. Not vulnerable, no, but human. Flesh and bone. </p><p>"What were you thinking?" He asks, sounding rather stunned at the damage you've managed to do to your knuckles from punching the door. "That's rather self-destructive, Cinderella. Doesn't seem like you." </p><p>"Oh, really?" You ask. </p><p>"Oh, no." Moriarty says. "You're not self-destructive. You like to hurt others instead." </p><p>You recoil slightly and his hands drop from yours. "They deserved it."</p><p>He nods, looking amused. "Well, yes, they did. That much is obvious. But you enjoyed it, and that's what matters." Moriarty walks over to the other side of his desk, opening a drawer and emerging with some bandages and packet of anti-septic wipes, before he approaches you again. He rips the little package open with his teeth and shakes it until the white cloth falls into his hands. </p><p>Moriarty discards the packet, letting it rest on his desk. "If you were going to take a trophy, what would it have been?" He asks, taking your left hand first, and swiping the wipe over it. </p><p>You let out a tiny hiss - it stings. The cuts had been small, but that doesn't make it burn any less. The white anti-septic wipe comes away from your knuckles spotted with streaks of blood. "Their heads." You admit, clenching your jaw as he does the same to your other hand. </p><p>"Oooh, nice." He says, grinning. "But not that practical. They could always rot. Human decomposition isn't my favourite cell." </p><p>The anti-septic wipe makes contact with the deepest wound across your right knuckles and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from letting out any pained noises. There is absolutely no desire within you to seem weak in front of somebody like him. </p><p>"Fucking taxidermy them, then." You retort, though your voice comes out somewhat strangled and pained. </p><p>His dark eyes dart up to meet yours. "Now that's lovely, Cinderella." </p><p>Despite his macabre line of work, Moriarty doesn't tend to meet people who are truly interesting very often. Even criminals can fall victim to being dull, and frequently they do. But you - you are lovely. He knows every single thing that has happened to you, and yet he's still intrigued by everything about you.</p><p>A silence befalls you as he begins to bandage your knuckles, expertly winding the gauze over your hands. It sits atop the wounds, cradling them in thin white strips. You don't allow yourself to relax - but it does feel somewhat comforting to be taken care of like this. Verona and her hellish daughters hadn't been the type to wrap your wounds or offer you support. </p><p>You hate the way he's so gentle. It makes you think, for just a moment, that under any other circumstances you would have welcomed and celebrated a touch so soft. In any other context, perhaps you could allow yourself to indulge in this - in him. But you can't, not when your life is veiled by a cloud of uncertainty that he is solely responsible for.</p><p>"So what now?" You ask, slightly more subdued now that your throbbing knuckles have been addressed. There's a deep curiosity within you now - perhaps this is an opportunity to obtain some answers for your many, many questions. </p><p>"Now we have a plan to fulfill." He sounds rather bored now, as he watches you. "There's so much that you don't know, and yet you've put your faith in me." </p><p>"I wouldn't say it was faith that compelled me to join your game." </p><p>He chuckles, sounding rather gleeful as he reminds you,"Our game, Cinderella. You're on my side now, and sweetheart, this isn't the side of the angels." </p><p>"No, I was never under the impression that it was." You retort. </p><p>"But then again, you seem to like a little hellfire, don't you?" Moriarty croons excitedly. </p><p>"Planning on telling me anything now that I've agreed?" </p><p>Moriarty raises an eyebrow. "Well, I wouldn't want to risk you getting bored. But, I'll let you on some things. After all, who would you tell?" </p><p>You wince at that, unwillingly reminded that freedom has come hand in hand with loneliness. Whilst half of London may have been aware of you - may have seen that years-old picture of you on TV or heard about you in the news, there is nobody, not a single soul that knows you in any way that matters. </p><p>And even now, when there's people milling about the mansion, you know that they'll never know you either. You don't think that any of them had even bothered to spare you a second glance.</p><p>In fact, Moriarty is the only person you have had a proper conversation with in days. </p><p>"I'm Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal, and you're Y/N L/N, my Cinderella. And weeee, are going to destroy Sherlock Holmes." </p><p>"Well, that seems simple enough." You say, sarcastically. </p><p>He clicks his tongue, chiding you. "Noooo, not simple, Cinderella. Simple would be boring - and this, this is going to be exciting. It's what everything was leading up to, until you got in the way." </p><p>"I got in the way?" </p><p>"Oh, yes. Took up all of Sherlock's attention. Very naughty of you. But now, you're on my side, and we're a force united." He sounds rather inspired, enthralled by the prospect of it all. His dark eyes are blown wide as he looks down at you. You've noticed that Moriarty has a tendency to become almost reverent whenever he talks about either the two of you together, or your crimes. </p><p>Like he's in awe. Of you - and of the two of you together. </p><p>In some way, you had chosen him. As a pathway to freedom only. </p><p>"And so, the plan is..." You prompt him. </p><p>"Pfft, so impatient, aren't we, Cinderella?" Moriarty scoffs. "The plan, of course, is to get Sherlock to answer the question on everybody's mind." </p><p>"Which is?" </p><p>He rolls his dark eyes, before gazing down at you. "Well, isn't it obvious, Cinderella? Staying alive, of course." </p><p>You frown, your mind running over everything you have learnt about the two of them - Sherlock's a detective on your case, and Moriarty is now your abductor who wants you to become his partner in crime against the aforementioned detective. "You... want him to die?" </p><p>"I've always wanted him to die. He's in the way - all the time. I just want to have fun with it first." Moriarty shrugs nonchalantly. In all fairness, murder does seem to be trivial to him - though he does keep trophies, which suggests that on some occasions, it has been more than just something on his to do list. It tells you that sometimes, when he kills, it means something to him. </p><p>It was entirely plausible that something belonging to Sherlock Holmes could end up on that bookshelf, too. </p><p>"You said that I was in your way." You say, rather absently. "Do you intend for me to die, too?" </p><p>"You're not the one I'm asking the question to. For now, you're just my teammate in the game. You could get your freedom at the end." He says. </p><p>And there it is - the hope that you've been waiting to appear. The prospect that if you play along you could be free. Your heart leaps, and you lurch forward, almost tumbling off the desk. </p><p>"Ooh, you liked that, didn't you?" Moriarty teases, pouting at you mockingly. </p><p>"Well, let's play then." You say, with a renewed kind of vigour. You feel the beginnings of a plan beginning to form. </p><p>The last plan that you had concocted resulted in three women dead at your hands and a building going up in flames. This one had the potential to be more bloody. Moriarty would probably even encourage it. </p><p>There you are, feeling just as much a hostage here as you had when you were in your basement, in Moriarty's study. He grins down at you, bringing his hand up to cup your jaw, his forefinger under your chin and the pad of his thumb resting on your bottom lip. </p><p>It's so terribly soft, so gentle. </p><p>"That's the spirit." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And thus began a begrudging routine. This was an unsteady partnership, and Moriarty took great joy in reminding you of that, at first. </p><p>You were to be confined to the mansion, watched by a platoon of his men, until such a point when you were to be useful. Most of your time was simply to be spent with Moriarty, preparing aspects of the game - often at times researching macabre, morbid things that you didn't understand. </p><p>There would be no opportunity for escape. Your room was heavily guarded, there were no windows for you to break, and even if there were, you still had no idea where you were. </p><p>For the first few days, you had struggled to find your footing here. This was an entirely new situation, and you were just trying your hardest to survive, to get by. You were very much a prisoner, and yet, you weren't treated the way you had been back at home.</p><p>Verona would scream at you, perhaps even strike you if she was particularly enraged, whilst Aubrey and Alora would rush about the house, creating as much a mess as they were able, and then leave you to clean it up. </p><p>Moriarty was... not so bad. </p><p>That statement, in and of itself, made you wince. He was a murderer, that much you gathered, and from what you could deduce, also the head of a major criminal organisation. It was almost impressive, really. </p><p>He could plan so throughly that he almost reminded you of yourself, which was another thought that you absolutely detested. Moriarty had shared just fragments of his plan for Sherlock Holmes with you, and yet each piece was extremely detailed with each and every possible outcome being considered. </p><p>Moriarty had the ability to be frighteningly logical. And yet, it was really creativity and spontaneity that ruled him. Those were the things he found most appealing - the outcomes that he had never considered were the ones he found the most alluring. </p><p>A typical day for you normally began when you would wake up in that grandiose room. It was superior to your hotel room - it didn't smell of any chemicals, and you felt almost at peace there. From there, you would get dressed, be given breakfast and then make your way downstairs, accompanied by a gaggle of armed guards. </p><p>They weren't so friendly. Most of them refused to even speak to you, and the ones that did were curt at best. It was rather isolating, to be surrounded by so many people and yet constantly ignored. </p><p>Then, you would enter Moriarty's study. It was quickly becoming one of the places in the mansion you were most familiar with. There, the two of you would discuss tiny details of a larger plan. You couldn't really discern what anything was going to be used for, but he seemed to like bouncing ideas off you. </p><p>There was a lot that you had learnt about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Theirs was a friendship, whilst your relationship with Moriarty was a difficult hostage and her seemingly bipolar abductor.</p><p>Today, as you entered, you found that he was already on the phone to somebody, and he looked enraged. </p><p>As always, he was dressed impeccably, sat at his desk, one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other clenched into a fist, resting on the wood, almost threateningly. </p><p>"I've already told you how to do it." He hisses, his voice low and venomous. He's scowling like you've never seen him do before, his lips curled into a sneer, and there's pure rage in his dark eyes. </p><p>You look awkwardly between him and your entourage, hovering in the doorway and observing him. Thus far, you haven't seen him interact with too many people, just yourself and a handful of henchmen. Even then, he seems to hold you in higher regard than he does them, so you've become somewhat assured that you're not going to become one of his little minions, running around and doing his bidding at a moment's notice. </p><p>"I can do things to you that you can't even imagine." He says, his jaw clenched. "I can have you torn to pieces and mailed back to your family in chunks. Maybe they'll get an eye first. Or a finger. I want you to remember that the next time you dare to forget what I want." </p><p>Moriarty's voice is so low, full of vitriol and as your eyes dart to his shelves of trophies from his kills, you know that he means every single word of it. The consulting criminal is simply beyond any body else's influence. You've come to understand that's how he operates. Everybody does as he says or they die in pain, begging for their lives to end. </p><p>You can't help but be transfixed by him when he's like this. In the very short time you've known him, you haven't seen Moriarty mad like this. He's jovial, mocking and excitable. It's been a while since he's even threatened you. </p><p>Anger is one of the emotions that are most familiar to you. It has shaped and forged you in ways that love never quite had the opportunity to. </p><p>You don't know Moriarty nearly well enough to determine whether it has been instrumental to his becoming, too. But you can guess that it has been. Nobody gets this far in such a bloody, vicious field - being a career criminal - without being subject to anger. You weren't naive enough to think that it drove him all the time, but it probably contributed. </p><p>In an instant, he's torn the phone away from his ear and ended the call. His dark gaze lands on you, and the fury in his eyes seems to lessen fragmentally. </p><p>"I'm guessing that didn't go to plan, then." You remark, sauntering away from the doorway to actually enter his study and approach him at his desk. </p><p>"It's not a part of our plan," He dismisses it easily, the tension in his shoulders beginning to lessen, and his fingers unfurling from where they had been clenched into a tight fist. "You know, they're still looking everywhere for you, Cinderella. Sherlock's driving himself mad trying to figure out which hotel you're staying in." </p><p>"Do you think he would have found me by now?" You ask. </p><p>Moriarty looks at you, studying you like you're some kind of puzzle that he can't figure out. "Sherlock would have found you yesterday at eleven am. He and John have already been in the hotel room that you stayed in." </p><p>Suddenly, it feels like your heart has dropped to your stomach. Yesterday at eleven am you had been researching the intricacies of mercury and lead poisoning - an effort that you were still collaborating on with Moriarty, though you had no idea what he intended to do with the information. </p><p>If not for him, you would have been in cuffs by now, awaiting trial, Sherlock's passing interest in you long gone, and you're left to rot in some cold little cell. </p><p>"Really?" Your voice comes out a whisper - vulnerable, raw, pitiful. You hate it more than anything. </p><p>"I'm not lying, Cinderella." He says with a minute shrug of his shoulders. "Do you think you'd know if I was?" </p><p>You feel all too much like you're drowning to even answer his question. There haven't been many points in your life during which you've felt this confused. The funerals and the wedding, probably - those were the days when you'd truly felt the loss of your parents the most, and the insidious arrival of a new one. </p><p>There's no way for you to really discern how this feels. It's like there's been a phenomenal, almost earth-shattering realisation on your part, and you're amazed that the world has kept turning. This feels like neither a loss, nor a gain. Perhaps, then, it was an exchange. Some part of yourself had been lost, cast aside the moment you discovered that by now, you would have lost any freedom at all, and exchanged for something that wasn't yours at all. </p><p>It felt like a part of you was now Moriarty. You were living as a slightly free woman on his time. There were limits to your freedom, but it was a warm mansion that was the polar opposite of that cold, rancid-smelling basement, and not a ten-by-ten cell. </p><p>"I don't - it'd be over by now?" You sound devastated. </p><p>"It would." Moriarty confirms, watching you closely, carefully. </p><p>The words are tumbling from your mouth before you can even comprehend them yourself. "Then, thank you. I don't, fuck, I don't like being locked up here, but thank you."</p><p>Your sincerity shocks even you, and Moriarty looks almost taken aback, his mouth hanging open slightly and his eyes widening. </p><p>"Cinderella, why don't you let me tell you about why mercury is a better poison than lead." He says, all falsely cheery. This time, you can see straight through him. There's not pure excitement in his eyes, burning like a wildfire. Rather, there's a shred of concern. </p><p>You don't know whether that's a good thing or not. All you know, is that some tiny, forsaken part of you is grateful to him. </p><p>"Did you know that lead poisoning is the most common environmental illness in children in California? I didn't." He says, off-handedly. Listening to his lilting voice is an effective distraction for your internal distress. "It can be attributed to paint. And that's boring - not to mention it would take the credit away from us." </p><p>You're willing to lean into any distraction he has to offer. You really, really do not want to think about the cell you would be in by now. </p><p>"And so mercury is better because...?" </p><p>"It's more deliberate," Moriarty stresses. "That at least will be recognised as our work. It's rare, and hard to treat. It can take up to eighteen years for the body to get rid of half a dose."</p><p>You nod easily. "And are you ever going to tell me who it's intended for?" </p><p>"You'll get to know that soon enough. I'm trying to build anticipation here." He sighs dramatically, reclining slightly in his chair. "I will, however, tell you that we're going to do something you'll like. It's very your style." </p><p>"How so?" You frown. "Arson, or...?" You trail off, unsure. </p><p>Moriarty grins wildly. "Oh, arson. What a lovely crime. Soooo fun, right? Unfortunately, no. What we're planning for is a recreation of a fairytale, with a different ending." </p><p>Immediately, your eyes widen. You're thrown back to the days of obsessively demanding your mother read Cinderella to you each and every night. She had even bought you a whole host of books, all different variations of the same familiar tale. You had loved each and every one of them uniquely, memorising all of their twists and turns, every letter, every dot of every 'i' and every cross of every 't'. </p><p>"Which one?" You ask. Really, he had thrown you off there. It hadn't been what you were expecting. But then again, Moriarty prided himself on subverting expectations and being changeable - a wild card. </p><p>"Guess, won't you?" He says, amusedly. He's smiling happily, like you're not discussing deadly poisons and off-handedly referencing your murders of your step-family. </p><p>Poison. You ponder over it for a moment, running a hand through your hair distractedly. "Snow White? Are we poisoning an apple?" </p><p>You freeze. It's so, so incredibly strange that you acknowledged it - that you said 'we' rather than 'he'. It's odd, terribly so, to realise that you've subconsciously accepted your place in this. </p><p>"Mmmh, no." Moriarty shakes his head. "Nice idea, though. Shame. We can use it another time. Guess again, Cinderella." </p><p>"I don't like it when you call me that." </p><p>He huffs. "Guess." He demands.</p><p>"Sleeping beauty? With the spindle?" </p><p>"No - but keep going. You've got some good ideas." </p><p>"Uh, Peter Pan?" You suggest, wincing. Rather quickly, you're running out of ideas. </p><p>Moriarty narrows his eyes at you. "There's no poison in Peter Pan."</p><p>"Yes there is," You retort hotly. "Captain Hook tries to poison Peter Pan, but Tinkerbell drinks it instead." </p><p>He scoffs at you, levelling you with an unimpressed, bored kind of look. "It's rather pathetic that you know that, don't you think?" </p><p>"No, no I really don't think so." You say, and you don't even know why you're getting quite so defensive, like he's touched a nerve just by challenging you on this.</p><p>"Any more guesses left, Cinderella?" </p><p>"The Riddle?" You guess, rather aimlessly. </p><p>Moriarty just looks rather confused. "Are you... making them up now? If you can't guess you can just concede." </p><p>"It's one of the Brothers Grimm ones. It's about a witch who poisons twelve people - but since you didn't even recognise the title I'm inclined to believe that's not it." You sigh, and you realise that you're rather...relaxed. </p><p>"It's Hansel and Gretel." Moriarty reveals, grinning. "Poison the sweets - " </p><p>"But Hansel and Gretel were kids," You frown. "You're not talking about doing something to kids are you? Oh god, you're not going to make somebody eat the kids?" </p><p>Moriarty looks mildly stunned. "Yet another brilliant idea. Oh, Cinderella. You're so good at this. Though, I do suppose you have experience with subverting fairy tales. We could make parents eat their own children - doesn't that sound fun? How long do you think they could hold out for if they were starving and their kid's bodies were their only source of food?"</p><p>Suddenly, you feel a little lightheaded. "No, no, that's not what - just tell me we're not doing anything with kids." </p><p>"Well why not?" He sounds affronted, like you've done something to offend him. </p><p>"They're innocent." You practically plead, clasping a hand over your mouth. This doesn't feel comforting at all - this is begging for somebody else's life and hoping he will take notice, that he will be compelled to spare them. </p><p>Moriarty raises an eyebrow at you, looking rather skeptical. "Were Aubrey and Alora innocent when they teased you mercilessly and encouraged their mother to hit you?" </p><p>You flounder for a response, your mouth opening and closing repeatedly, but you just can't seem to get any words out. "Kids are - kids are innocent." Is the retort that eventually tumbles from your lips, but you sound unconvinced, even to your own ears, and you just know that Moriarty knows that he's rattled you, that he's uncovered a nerve and he can now press on it for his own entertainment. </p><p>"Innocence is a big lie," Moriarty's voice raises incrementally, and you think that this may be the closest he's come to yelling at you. He sounds annoyed, like he's chastising a child - or rather, like he's disappointed in you and is irritated that he is being faced with the reality that you are not like him in every way. </p><p>"They haven't done anything, they shouldn't die." Your protest seems rather weak. </p><p>Still, he begrudgingly concedes. "I'll find the worst, meanest kids out there, and I'll just get them sick - they won't die, but they'll feel like they want to. How about that?" He suggests, his jaw clenched and his eyes dark. </p><p>"Why even listen to me in the first place? Why not just kill them anyway?" </p><p>"Beeeeecause, you're my partner in crime. You're a step above the rest of the people here, Cinderella. So, since I'm such a giving person, I'll let the kids live. For you." </p><p>For the second time that day, you find yourself thanking him. </p><p>You don't think to question why he's doing something you'd like. Jim knows the reason, though. It's because there's only one other person who knows your brilliant mind the way he does, the other man who is obsessed with finding you - Sherlock Holmes. It's with an almost burning, fevered desperation that he wants Sherlock to know that you belong to him. </p><p>This is a dedication - a brand of possession, if one were to be simple about it.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. prince charming wants a wife</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's strangely easy to get used to James Moriarty. Adapting to his needs is a necessity, and yet, you find that you barely have to change at all. </p><p>You slip into his routine fairly quickly. Despite your initial panic, and the feeling that the whole place was a prison, you're able to push that behind you. It's easy to become the person he demands of you, solely because that person is yourself. </p><p>There's no way for you to discern what this whole plan is leading up to, but for now, you've managed to gather a few pieces of the puzzle. They don't quite form a whole, unbroken image yet, but you can understand what they're going to comprise. </p><p>There is something that Moriarty has that he's very, very proud of. He's going to unveil it to the world, and you've been assured that every single major criminal is going to scramble to get their hands on it. This thing, whatever it may be, has a great deal of power, apparently. </p><p>Initially, you'd been inclined to believe that it was some sort of weapon of mass destruction. Moriarty had told you that it had the potential to be one, and you believed him. He was a great many things, and not many of them good, but you didn't think he was a liar. Not to you, anyway.</p><p>However, the more he talked about it, the more you began to suspect that this prized weapon over the masses was actually a farce. It was absolutely the kind of thing he would delight in, tricking everybody into competing for his attention. He never explicitly said it, but you did have an inkling that his 'weapon' was more of a party trick that would lead to destruction but not actually cause any on its own.</p><p>The second aspect that you were sure of was that something was going to happen to some kids. The thought of it alone churned your stomach, and his words about innocence remained emblazoned on the back of your eyelids, haunting you whenever you close your eyes. Thankfully, you had persuaded Moriarty not to kill them, but rather just to hurt them. Which would probably be very traumatising, and it did make you wince just thinking about it, but at least the kids would be sent to therapy rather than the morgue. </p><p>And somehow, despite all of this - the kidnapping, the being forced into his plans - there was a part of you that remained thankful to him. </p><p>Moriarty was a monster, there was no denying that. He liked to hurt others for his entertainment, and he ran a criminal enterprise, consulting with the worst offenders on the planet. </p><p>But, he had saved you. By now, Sherlock Holmes would have found you in your hotel room and you would be awaiting trial. </p><p>This wasn't freedom, but it was more than you'd ever had. </p><p>"Cinderella," You hear Moriarty's lilting irish voice call out, down the hallway from your bedroom. It's still early, you think, and unless you'd overslept, then he was coming to fetch you rather early. </p><p>You'd already been awake, though you were lounging around rather than actually doing anything, already dressed in some of the fine clothes from the wardrobe, just waiting for breakfast or a summons from the consulting criminal, which were usually delivered by one of his henchmen. </p><p>The door swings open - it doesn't even make a click, and you're left to speculate whether it had even been locked at all. </p><p>Moriarty saunters in, grinning. It's a habit of his, to dress impeccably - for today, he's donned a navy blue suit, probably Westwood, which you've discovered he's rather fond of. "Today, we're having an exercise in trust." </p><p>You look at him confusedly, not quite understanding. "Like... team bonding?" </p><p>"Oh, precisely. Since we're a team, and all." </p><p>"We're only a team because -" </p><p>Moriarty cuts you off jovially. "Because I kidnapped you and you joined me against your will. Yada yada yada. Yes, let's move passed that. 'S hardly relevant. C'mon, Cinderella. We have places to be." </p><p>"We're leaving the house?" You immediately perk up, jumping up and stalking towards him, simultaneously excited and predatory. You're willing to pounce on and devour any opportunity for freedom. </p><p>"Yes, yes we are. To get to know each other better." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Standing before your house, reduced to rubble, was not your idea of 'team bonding'. Even then, calling yourselves a team was probably an exaggeration. He had all of the power, and you just had to tag along for the ride. </p><p>You hadn't really ever anticipated seeing it again in person. </p><p>The entire place was blackened and crumbling. It's an overly nice day, the kind where the sky is blue and it's warm, but there's a gentle cool breeze that keeps you grounded. The entire street looks lovely, thriving in the warm weather, but this house, your home, was now a blight on the street, a dark contrast to how happy the rest of the world seemed. Verona's car had been removed, probably even destroyed by now, and there had been some minor clean up done in the garden, with lots of the loose, fallen tiles from the roof having been gathered up. </p><p>There's obnoxiously yellow crime scene tape everywhere, cordoning off the house and some of the surrounding areas. </p><p>It was just the shell of what it had once been. </p><p>It was different, seeing it in person. On the TV, it hadn't even seemed real - it was just another thing for you to celebrate. The last time you were here, it was burning. This ashen, blackened, warped skeleton of your childhood home is a potent reminder of how far you've come, of what you've sacrificed for a freedom you're struggling to obtain.</p><p>Moriarty nudges you. There's some of his men on the street, standing tall and stoic - ever silent and ever watching, their presence is likely to prevent you from attempting an escape. He's since put on some sunglasses and keeps pivoting his head slightly to look between you and the charred remains of your childhood home. </p><p>"Well...?" He asks, questioningly. </p><p>"I really, really don't see how this is meant to build trust." You say, rather numbly. It had felt a lot better when the place was still ablaze. Now that the Archer family were dead and their presence removed from the house, it almost feels like a shame that it had to burn at all. </p><p>Almost. But not quite. </p><p>It's still a monument to your power, to your ability to maim and destroy. You don't feel half as distant when you remember their suffering, the way that the girls had bled out like pigs when you slit their throats and nearly hacked their heads off. </p><p>"Mmh, maybe not yet. I just wanted to see what you had done." Moriarty admits with a shrug. "Look at all you've accomplished, and think how much we could do together." </p><p>"I don't want to burn the whole world." You tell him, for the first time looking away from the ashes of the house and up at him. "I want to rule it." </p><p>Moriarty grins wildly. "That's the spirit, Cinderella. I can give you the world, you know. All the freedom you want. You just have to stand at my side." </p><p>"Isn't that what I'm doing right now?" </p><p>"Well yes, it is." </p><p>The birds are still singing, chirping happily to one another and diving in the air, flapping their wings. It's rather comforting to know that it hasn't changed - that the parts you like have remained intact, even as you'd rained hellfire down upon this place. There wasn't such birdsong in London, and you had missed it.</p><p>"Why me?" You have to ask - you've asked so many times and you can never be satisfied with the answer. </p><p>"Sherlock was interested in you. At first, you were in my way. And now?" He raises an eyebrow at you. "Now you're the way forward, Cinderella." </p><p>It feels like you've come to some sort of pivotal moment. Here, under the sun and staring at the house you had burnt down, Moriarty doesn't feel so much like a captor. Rather, you're beginning to feel that comradery, that stirring of companionship. The two of you weren't exactly alike, no. But you didn't have to be. </p><p>"I'm not sorry I did it." You say, staring at the rubble that you had reduced your childhood home to. </p><p>"No, I know." He shrugs. "It'd be awfully boring if you were. Remorse is a bit ordinary, don't you think?"</p><p>You don't bother answering his questions. Rather, you close your eyes, and let yourself listen to the soft chirps, hoots and calls from the songbirds darting through the trees. When you're not looking at how damaged the house is, it's easy for you to imagine the hazy days of your youth - watching the birds with your mother, running around the garden whilst your father chased you. </p><p>"I'd missed the music, though." You admit. "London doesn't have such pretty songbirds. I always enjoyed waking up to them." </p><p>Silently, Jim absorbs the information. He's content to look between you, basking gloriously in the sun, bathed in light, and the destruction you had inflicted on those who sought to subdue you. Both were beautiful sights.</p><p>You didn't want to be a mirror image of James Moriarty, and you never would. That wasn't what he wanted, either. </p><p>Despite the armed guards behind you, you do, for the first time, feel free. </p><p>This isn't a scrap of impure, tainted freedom like back at the hotel. This is the real thing - this is feeling weightless, untethered. </p><p>There had been a great many variations of Cinderella written. You had admired them all. Perhaps in this version, Cinderella wasn't the only twisted one. Maybe she burns the house down, but she finds kinship in the prince anyway. Perhaps Prince Charming throws his ball to find victims, rather than wives. </p><p>That would be a happily ever after that you could enjoy. There could be no need for lies when you were capable of understanding each other completely. Depravity was a universal craving, and one you knew well, whether it was driven by desperation or not. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Today is a very important day, or so you have been told. </p><p>This is the day when these fragments of plots come to fruition. Moriarty's men mill about the mansion faster than usual, talking to each other in hushed, rapid voices when they would normally be silent. It very much sets you on edge. </p><p>When you enter Moriarty's study that morning, he's sat at his desk and he's not dressed the way he normally is. There's no striking blue Westwood suit or something similar. He's dressed casually - he's even wearing a hat. </p><p>You can't quite mask your confusion. </p><p>"Launch day, Cinderella." He clicks his tongue at you chidingly, like he's disappointed, or as if you even had the opportunity to forget. </p><p>"Yeah, I know." You bite out, annoyed that he would presume it could slip your mind. "Just... what are you wearing?" </p><p>You much prefer his pretentious luxury suits to this - a boring, beige blazer and a black cap. It just doesn't look like him. It doesn't look like Moriarty. It looks like a random civilian man that would probably ask you for directions around London. It peturbs you that he doesn't look quite like himself. </p><p>Then, you're subsequently even more distressed by your own distress. </p><p>You've rather established that you've come to view Moriarty as more of a partner or mentor figure than as a captor. Here is the most free you've ever felt, and you owe your freedom to him. Naively, you hadn't planned post-murder, and by now, you would have been caught. </p><p>Moriarty has become almost familiar, and you don't like seeing that familiarity vanish. </p><p>"I'm a tourist!" He proclaims, gesturing to his outfit. "Aw, don't you like it?" </p><p>"Well, no." You say, rather flatly. "It doesn't look like you." </p><p>Moriarty creeps up from behind his desk, stalking over to tower over you and look down at you, his dark eyes staring at you intensely. "It's not forever, Cinderella. Just for one night." </p><p>"And you're presenting the thing to the world like this?" You ask dubiously, once more running your eyes over him and trying not to wince. It just doesn't sit right seeing him dressed as something he's not - seeing him downplay himself and disguise as a regular person. </p><p>"I'll be wearing a crown when they catch me, don't you worry." </p><p>Involuntarily, your eyes widen and you're suddenly grasping at his shirt and looking up into his eyes beseechingly, desperate for answers. "You're going to get caught?" You sound aghast, disbelieving and you feel like you've been wronged - like this is a betrayal. </p><p>Moriarty scoffs, but he doesn't pry you from his body. Rather, he simply lets you cling to him. "Not for long. Today, I'm going to get caught stealing the crown jewels." </p><p>Your jaw drops open and you fist your hands into his shirt even tighter, pulling so hard you're practically chest-to-chest with each other - with Moriarty staring down at you and you gazing up at him. "The crown jewels." </p><p>"Then Pentonville Prison, and the Bank of England, too." He says, grinning. </p><p>Really, Moriarty's power and influence shouldn't shock you. He's got loads of people here on strings, following his orders and doing his bidding. They scurry about the mansion in a frenzy, completely obedient to him. </p><p>"And you're... going to get caught?"</p><p>Moriarty brings one of his hands up to stroke just the top of your head, playing with your hair comfortingly. "Not for long. I'll be out of there before you know it. In the meantime, you'll have jobs to do. Is that okay, Cinderella? You'll play along, won't you?" He croons softly. </p><p>"I will." You don't feel half as reluctant as you should. </p><p>"Good." Moriarty says, proudly. "That's what matters. You're more than welcome to visit me in jail, though I doubt I'll be there for very long." </p><p>There's a knock at the door, and that's when you realise just how close you and he are. Your hands are still fisted in his shirt, he's stroking your hair - and he's so devastatingly close, and there's a pang in your stomach but it's not pain, it's pure feeling.</p><p>The loud knocking persists, and reluctantly, you step away, dropping your hands from his body and missing the feel of his hand tangled in your hair. </p><p>"Come in, then." Moriarty calls out, looking darkly at the nameless employee of his that enters the study. </p><p>"Sir, it's time to go." </p><p>Moriarty casts you one last look, his dark eyes roaming over your body, seemingly trying to memorise you - like this moment is something he doesn't want to forget. </p><p>You've slotted into his life so well - you're a somewhat unwilling and ungrateful accomplice, but he still very much appreciates you despite that. He finds that, knowing he will be absent for potentially days at a time, he wants to emblazon the very image of you onto the back of his eyelids, so that you're always waiting for him in the darkness. </p><p>"Well, Cinderella. Until we meet again." He says, softly. </p><p>In the next instant, he's walking out, swiftly followed by his men, and you're left alone in his study, with more questions than answers. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There were a great, great many rooms in this mansion. Your time was often divided between your bedroom and Moriarty's study. But today, you were lounging around on some expensive white couch, watching TV intently. </p><p>You would constantly be changing news channels, waiting for the story to break. You had seen bits and pieces of dreary, repetitive soap operas, listened to fragments of sports shows, and even made your way through half a nature documentary before anything happened. </p><p>You would bite at your lip nervously, fiddle with your hands and pull on your hair. You were nervous, frighteningly so. Naturally, there were a few expected concerns flitting around your mind, like what happens to you if Moriarty actually does go to prison, or what would happen if something goes wrong, or what if he turns you in. </p><p>But, there are a few that you hadn't anticipated. There's a twisting, nauseating feeling in your stomach. It's like there's some terrible beast writhing around in your gut, eviscerating any organs it comes into contact with and leaving you a whimpering, anxious mess. </p><p>You are worried for him.  </p><p>And you're not just worried about what may happen to you - you're actually concerned for him. As much as Moriarty may be a murderer and a criminal, you're those things too, and he's the only person that you have to depend on. </p><p>There is nobody else in your life. Nobody but him. </p><p>Your parents are long since dead and buried, and the three members of your step-family slain by your own hands. You had come to London alone, friendless and without a plan. He had been the one to secure your freedom, to give you this. </p><p>And then, the news channels all practically explode. </p><p>" - there has been a break in at the Bank of England. Reportedly, the vault has opened, though how much, or if anything has been stolen remains unknown to us at this time."  </p><p>Hastily, you turn the channel over, constantly darting between news sources, hoping for any new information. All of their voices are blaring, and blurring together, but they're not saying what you want them to. </p><p>"We can officially report that prisoners at the Pentonville Prison have been - "</p><p>And most importantly, </p><p>"Following a series of break-ins that include places such as the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison, it has been reported that the Tower of London has been breached, and the Crown Jewels were removed. A suspect has been taken into custody." </p><p>"...all broken into by the same man! James Moriarty."</p><p>There it is. The news lady finishes her spiel, and the screen flashes up a video. You can't tell whether it's live or not, but it's Moriarty, and he's being arrested, thrown into the back of a police vehicle with his hands cuffed behind his back. </p><p>"Oh my god," You breathe, and you have to remind yourself that this is all part of the plan. Moriarty always intended for this to happen. </p><p>It does, however, feel awfully perturbing to see him like that. It's like he's tumbled from his pedestal, and been stripped of everything that made him unique. It's pitiful, seeing him cuffed and arrested like he's some common criminal. There is absolutely nothing common about Moriarty, and you doubt there ever has been. </p><p>So, this was his weapon. The ability to enter the Bank of England, Pentonville Prison, the Tower of London and who knows where else. If these places were vulnerable to his influence, then surely anywhere was. And that was probably the point. He was showing off - it didn't matter to him whether he was arrested or not. </p><p>There was probably a contingency plan for that, too. </p><p>This was all meant to happen - this was all part of his design, and you just had to trust in it. </p><p>Trust. Wasn't that a funny thing. You frown as you mull it over - trusting in him was probably a dangerous move, but he was the only person you have to trust in, and he had saved you from a fate much worse than this. You would have to believe in him - that everything would work out just fine. </p><p>Never in recent years had you been in a position where you had to depend on another person. You had always been the one flitting about, clearing up the mess, taking the abuse and festering in your own anger. </p><p>You should be the one in handcuffs - you would have been by now. But you're not, you're here, and Moriarty is the one imprisoned. Perhaps it is time to fight tooth and nail for the freedom of somebody other than yourself. </p><p>He would get out. One way or another, Jim Moriarty would make sure that he got free. After all, the game hadn't ended yet, and there were still plans to be fulfilled. </p><p>His absence was tangible in the house. There wasn't really anybody else around for you to interact with - his men certainly didn't care to, and you were rather awkward when it came to the realm of social interaction. </p><p>All that was left to do was wait, and trust.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. bloodied feet will fit into the glass slipper</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>And so, James Moriarty remains in police custody whilst you stay in his mansion, surrounded by his buzzing henchmen. They scurry about the place like ants, seemingly only very slightly unsettled by Moriarty's absence. </p><p>You, on the other hand, feel it very, very much. It's only once he's gone that you notice just how much of your time he had occupied, demanding that you help him research tiny aspects of his grand plan. </p><p>But, just because Moriarty is absent doesn't mean that you've been idle. You had taken up residence in his study, at first using the opportunity to peruse his trophies. </p><p>The very idea of them fascinated you. You had heard of serial killers taking trophies from their victims before, but you vehemently refused to put Moriarty in the same category as them. They lacked the power that he wielded so easily. Besides, Moriarty refused to limit himself to just one crime. </p><p>He committed a whole host of them, and helped his clients succeed in getting away with their own. Securing acquittals was probably everyday work for him, and you were sure he was well-versed in not getting caught. </p><p>These little trinkets, just tiny, everyday items, were all that remained of the people they had belonged to. There weren't even that many, considering his field of work, so you hypothesised that only the most important kills would be deserving of taking a trophy. </p><p>You had meant what you said to him - if you had the opportunity, you would have taken their heads. In an ideal world, you would have been able to inflict all of the pain back onto them, bringing them down to some cold, secluded basement and force them to endure the most deprived of your imaginings. </p><p>Unfortunately, you fell victim to pragmatism. You very much doubted that Moriarty was the same. </p><p>Looking at him was like looking in a warped carnival mirror. He was a distorted version of you, similar on a base-level. You couldn't pretend you were above him, not after the brutality you had inflicted on your step-mother and step-sisters. They had deserved it, but you supposed that he probably thought his victims did, too. </p><p>Moriarty is everything you have the potential to be. With his subtle manipulations, he can bring a kingdom to its knees. </p><p>He also has a soft spot for you, or so you think. He views you as being above the others here. In some way, he's deified you - you're his companion, his Cinderella. </p><p>And you find yourself willing to be. At first, you thought that he had stifled your freedom, strangling it with his bare hands and watching it die for his own entertainment. Now, you find yourself more inclined to see this as your freedom. </p><p>Here, you can be anything you want. </p><p>You spend quite some time staring at his little trophies, your eyes trailing over each one. Among them is a lipstick, some purses, wallets, keys. It's easy to let yourself get distracted and theorise about whom each one may have belonged to and what they did to get themselves killed. </p><p>But, you have things to do. You peel yourself away from the bookshelf and instead decide to look in the drawer to his desk. </p><p>The drawer's mostly empty. There's mostly business cards, a notepad, and a singular white envelope. </p><p>'Cinderella.' Is written plainly on the front. </p><p>Your heart leaps into your throat, and you hastily situate yourself in his chair, quickly breaking the seal and tugging out the letter within it. Even the card is weighty - the expensive kind, and you let out a tiny giggle. Moriarty won't even allow his paper to be cheap. That, too, has to be luxurious. </p><p>'Sherlock Holmes won't be the only one answering the final question. We need to make our move first, and make it convincing. Let death be the next thing you defeat, Cinderella.'</p><p>The final question - the end of Moriarty and Sherlock's game. How does one conquer death and stay alive? </p><p>This wasn't your area of expertise. You weren't the consulting criminal who had probably faked deaths over and over. And yet, Moriarty was seemingly leaving it up to you to be the one to convince Sherlock that Moriarty was dead. </p><p>You couldn't decipher why - was it possible that he had come to trust you?</p><p>It seems almost impossible. Trust isn't meant to be built in such a short amount of time, and not between the likes of you and him. He'd even kidnapped you, for god's sake, and somehow you had wound up being grateful to him. Even now, you're considering how to engineer faking his death, rather than how to escape his grasp. </p><p>There's worse things out there than James Moriarty. You had spent years of your life imprisoned in a cold basement and being relegated to little more than a maid, tossed around and discarded by your step-family for their entertainment. He had given you a warm place to stay and a real, legitimate chance at freedom. </p><p>All you had to do was play his game. You'd even managed to find some enjoyment in it. For so long, you had been starved of real human contact, left to be your own company. You had never thought that it would happen, but you do feel a stirring of comradery with him. </p><p>You're very different people, yes. But that doesn't matter quite so much when he makes you feel something other than blistering rage. </p><p>You're going to be the one to orchestrate the theatrical fall of James Moriarty. He will die in appearance only. For now, he's offering you the chance to become the puppeteer, and you're willing to accept the strings from him. </p><p>It has been years since you have trusted anybody other than yourself. The feelings of warmth you had associated with your parents have been dulled by time and the brutal realisation of how flawed they had been. Your mother knew she would never get better, and your father found comfort in the arms of a woman you would come to detest. </p><p>There had never been any friendship between yourself, Aubrey and Alora. You had been practically reared in isolation - kept  away from other children at first by your mother's pervasive illnesses, and then by Verona. </p><p>You didn't recall what it felt like to be trusted implicitly. But, there's a warm feeling in your chest that is akin to freedom, and you think that might be it. </p><p>So, naturally, you set to work. How hard can it be to fake somebody's death? </p><p>Fortunately, his network of diligent criminals are now at your disposal. It's astonishingly easy to sink down in the seat in his study and become him. No, not become him. He wouldn't want that. He doesn't want you as anybody other than yourself, as anybody other than his Cinderella. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Moriarty's trial approaches swiftly. </p><p>There's a media storm surrounding it. Sherlock Holmes has a fame of his own - the Reichenbach Hero, the beloved amateur detective. It shocks you when you see him on TV for the first time. You don't know quite what you'd been expecting. He's rather tall, with his curly brown hair and snarky attitude. </p><p>He desperately needs a PR team - he keeps making a mess of his public appearances, and yet people seem to adore him - but more importantly, you can't help but look at him and imagine what could have happened.</p><p>You could have been sat in your hotel room, gazing out of the window. Perhaps you would have just returned from purchasing brunch, or maybe by then you would have secured a place of employment that wouldn't ask you too many questions. </p><p>Maybe you'd just gotten ready. You would sit there, basking in the streams of sunlight pouring through the floor-length window, and ponder the future. You would think about your job - your first shift, how nervous you were, how you had wished you made a more in depth plan, and how, no matter what, you would be the most dangerous person in the room. </p><p>You would look at the streets and think of the singing birds that you missed from back home. The pigeons of London weren't nearly so melodic, so pretty in their symphony. You would think about how this seedy, underpaid job would be awful, but it would be the beginning of your freedom. </p><p>And then, it would all come crashing down. </p><p>The door would go flying open, you would spin around, looking so terribly desperate, praying that it would just be a rowdy member of room service. You would go disappointed. Rather than any member of the hotel staff, there would be Sherlock Holmes, towering in the doorway. </p><p>He would be victorious, and you would subsequently be arrested. That freedom would die at his hands, choked, strangled, and left to rot in that tragically tiny hotel room. All before you had the opportunity to do anything with your life. </p><p>But that didn't happen. </p><p>No, you had been spared that fate by Moriarty. </p><p>And today, he would be in court ten at the Old Bailey. You didn't want to be there - not with Sherlock in the room. He was incredibly astute, and though you knew he didn't have a current picture of you, you didn't trust yourself not to give it away, not to somehow unknowingly reveal your identity. </p><p>So, you had sent somebody else in your stead. In lieu of Moriarty, most of his men seemed to follow your orders. You had sent one to go and film the trial, live streaming it to the TV in the living room. </p><p>For now, all you can see is the crowd of people being ushered into the court. The agent seats himself in the public gallery upstairs, giving himself an optimum view of the trial. You'd picked somebody painfully average, a man who wouldn't look out of place anywhere. Nobody would think twice at his presence, and he wouldn't interact with anybody unless strictly necessary. </p><p>He would simply sit, watch, and act as your eyes and ears. </p><p>To his credit, the camera work isn't very shaky. It's not the best quality, and the audio is muffled, but you can still see and hear. There's the stony-faced judge, presiding over it all, the prosecutorial and defense teams staring each other down, and the gaggle of jurors, looking silently around the courtroom. </p><p>It's then that Moriarty is led in. Finally, finally, you're seeing him in the way you're used to. He's dressed impeccably - a grey suit, not entirely unlike the one he'd worn the first time you'd met. He looks the way you're used to him looking - aloof, but with those dark eyes that immediately land on his henchman. </p><p>He's walked into the room by an entourage of officers clad in bulletproof vests, who crowd around him and force him down into his seat. </p><p>Moriarty gazes up at the man you've sent to watch him - seemingly picking out the non-descript henchman from the crowd of spectators. His lip curls slightly, and he says something to a short blonde lady, whose pale hair is pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. </p><p>She nods stiffly, and slides her hand into his pocket. Whatever it is that she removes from it - you think it to be a piece of chewing gum - is subsequently placed onto his tongue. </p><p>All the while he's looking up at his henchman, at the camera, and you feel his gaze as if he's really here, in the room with you. </p><p>They go through their opening statements. Rows of teams - the defense and the prosecution - eye each other wearing, the leading figures in each camp donning traditional curled white wigs, almost identical to that of the judge. </p><p>The trial proceeds fairly smoothly. The jurors will occasionally shift about and you'll observe each one, silently trying to decipher if they would find him guilty or not. Ultimately, though, your eyes always return to James Moriarty. </p><p>He's chewing softly, looking boredly between the judge and his henchman. He knows you're watching, and it's like he's wordlessly assuring you he's okay. </p><p>And then, of course, Sherlock Holmes storms into the trial. He's the star witness, the hero of the story.</p><p>And he is absolutely insufferable to the entire judicial team. Immediately, he criticises the way in which the leading prosecutor is doing her cross-examination, ruthlessly correcting her as she stares wide-eyed up at him. </p><p>You don't think you'd ever really heard him speak much before. He'd been featured on the TV and in newspaper articles more times than you could count, and you'd heard a great deal about him from Moriarty. </p><p>He seemed so aloof, so relentlessly detached - like he'd amputated his emotions a long time ago in favour of pure logic. </p><p>It made him utterly unrelatable. He wasn't the TV hero he was presented to be. Sherlock Holmes, Reichenbach Hero, wasn't particularly compassionate or focused on saving the world. Rather, he just so happened to be interested in untangling the mysteries that Moriarty concocted. He hadn't even tried to conform to the ideal of what the media wanted him to be.</p><p>This is what makes him so different from Moriarty. Jim can understand logic, he can comprehend it just as deeply as Sherlock can. And yet, he chooses chaos - unpredictability, entertainment. </p><p>"...James Moriarty is not a man at all. He's a spider. A spider at the centre of a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how every single one of them dances." Sherlock says. </p><p>For the first time throughout the duration of his trial, Moriarty's gaze is no longer aimed at the camera, and subsequently yourself. His dark eyes are fixed firmly on Sherlock, and he nods almost imperceptibly, like he's approving of the description. </p><p>And it really is an apt one. You're not the only person that knows Moriarty well enough to understand him. </p><p>The court is adjourned. Everybody files out, and for a long while you lose sight of Moriarty.</p><p>Then, when the session is resumed, you almost pass out. </p><p>James Moriarty pleads not guilty to every offense and the defence refuses to call any witnesses. They will offer no evidence whatsoever that he did not commit these crimes. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest and you have the urge to scream until your throat is raw. This doesn't feel like a clever plan - it doesn't feel like a plan at all. </p><p>Your fingernails bite into your palms and watch his defense lawyer rest. The man doesn't even stir - he hasn't done anything this whole time and you're incredibly frustrated. Nothing feels right. His lawyer should be exploiting Sherlock's abysmal witness testimony and undermining the prosecution's case. </p><p>But they don't. The defense rests, and Moriarty turns back to look up at the gallery. He pulls a face, a mocking frown, a caricature of concern. </p><p>His dark eyes, however, are alight with glee and anticipation. Somehow, you're reassured. This is part of the plan. </p><p>"James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary..." The judge trails off, beseeching the jury to find him guilty, so that he may be sentenced to jail for a very long time. </p><p>The court is adjourned again. This time, it is only the jury that leave to deliberate. Every moment that they're gone and you're unable to observe them is almost torturous. Moriarty looks completely unconcerned, staring down the judge and chewing softly without a care in the world. He looks so, so assured, and you just have to trust that he has reason to be. </p><p>The jury return six minutes later, shuffling back into their seats. </p><p>"Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?" The judge asks gravely. </p><p>"The jury finds James Moriarty..." The spokeswoman for the jury calls out.</p><p>You feel almost like you're underwater. Everything around you seems blurred, hazy, and you know that it's not because the camera quality has suddenly changed. There's so much hinging on this, and you're nervous. </p><p>Nervous in the way that there's a pit in your stomach and you feel nauseous, lightheaded and short of breath. It doesn't matter why - you don't want to confront the why on any level other than you understand one another and he saved you from enduring a trial of your own. </p><p>"Not guilty on all counts of burglary and attempted robbery."</p><p>Relief is a sweet feeling. It doesn't hit you softly, but rather barrels into you like a tsunami, knocking you off your feet. It blasts away that relentless, twisting anxiety and is more overwhelming, in a way. All of that tension releases from your body, and your shoulders sag. </p><p>Moriarty is grinning up at his henchman. And despite the fact that he can't see you, you grin back, laughing hysterically and feeling giddy. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He returns home to you, grinning triumphantly as he kicks the door to the mansion open. </p><p>"Daddy's home," Moriarty announces, calling out to you jovially. </p><p>You hear the dull thud of the door being forced open, and then, Moriarty's crooning irish voice calling out to you like a siren to a sailor. Before you can even think to examine what you're doing, you're rushing to him, barreling down the hallways and scarpering passed any of his henchmen that you come into contact with. </p><p>They do a relatively good job of avoiding you, rushing out of your way, as you shove your way through them, grinning wildly. </p><p>You find him stood in the doorway. He looks identical to how he had on the livestreamed footage - light grey suit, black hair slicked back. Moriarty looks so casual, so nonchalant about everything that's just happened. And yet, his eyes seem so much more vivid, more alive, when they land on you than they had on the henchman's footage. </p><p>From here, you slow your speed, approaching him slowly, cautiously, still grinning madly, until you're almost chest to chest. He peers down at you, inspecting you almost eagerly.</p><p>"I told you that I'd be out before you knew it." </p><p>"There was never a time where I didn't believe you." You reply. </p><p>"Did you enjoy the show?" He asks, his voice lilting. For a moment, the fleeting thought that you'd missed his voice passes through your mind.</p><p>It takes a concerted effort for you not to roll your eyes. "Hardly a show if I already knew how it was going to end. I didn't really expect Sherlock to be so..." </p><p>"Boring?" Moriarty guesses, pouting slightly. </p><p>"Not boring," You shrug, frowning slightly. He hadn't come across as boring, never even bland. But he wasn't what you had anticipated, not in the slightest. "Detached? I expected him to be like you." </p><p>It's true. You had expected the two mortal enemies - the brilliant men locked in a devastating, violent, bloodthirsty game of cat and mouse to be more alike. In a way, you expected them to be mirror images of each other, the only difference being that one of them had chosen what was good, and the other, what was inherently destructive. </p><p>They weren't, though. Sherlock and Moriarty were mirrored only in fragments, the same way that you were. Whatever Sherlock couldn't bring himself to mirror in Moriarty, you could. In some way, you filled in a gap that nobody had even noticed was there. </p><p>Moriarty's eyebrows shoot upwards, and he looks momentarily surprised. "Like me? Sherlock and I understand each other... but we're completely different." </p><p>"You know, normally it's the villains that are supposed to lack emotion." You say, off-handedly. </p><p>"Are you calling me a villain, Cinderella?" His lips quirk upwards into a bastardised smile. Moriarty leans ever closer to you, almost intimidating you with his slight height advantage, but you know he's not trying to instill terror into you - your fear isn't something he wants. Not when he sounds like this, like he's missed you.</p><p>"Somebody has to be the villain." You can't refrain from smirking. You feel like you're toying with each other now - not quite reaching the heights of his game with Sherlock, but this is significant in its own way. There has to be somebody to oppose him, and you don't know whether he's realised that yet - that he enjoys the challenge, the entertainment it brings. It's distracting, addicting, even. </p><p>"Oh, really?" </p><p>"At least you're enjoying it. Sherlock doesn't seem to enjoy playing the hero very much." </p><p>Moriarty brings a pale hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb traversing softly over the plane of your cheek. His touch is so gentle like this, so loving, that it's almost possible for you to forget that these hands have killed, have rained down destruction and torture onto others. </p><p>Then again, so have yours. Murder didn't make your hands any more calloused than they had been before, and your ability to be gentle, to care, hadn't bled out with the rest of your family that fateful morning. </p><p>"Is that what this is? Enjoyment?" He inquires, his brow furrowing slightly as his dark eyes roam over your face, cataloguing every tiny detail. You think then, that he's not being rhetorical, that this is a genuine question. Perhaps everything is becoming blurred for him too. </p><p>Lines are easy to cross when you care very little for the consequences of your actions, and yet, he seems, for the first time, to display real confusion about what your purpose is here. </p><p>"Partnership." You correct him, without even thinking. </p><p>It was strange, how this time the roles had been reversed. Now it was you reminding him of your status as Cinderella. Yes, Cinderella. But this wasn't a basement and you weren't cleaning, not anymore. Instead, you're ready to rule a kingdom. </p><p>His eyes dart away from you then, and he seems to contemplate your words for a moment longer, milling them over and coming to the same conclusion that you had. That this, despite the blood and the blackmail, was right. </p><p>Fated may be a strong word, but this felt like destiny. A thousand possibilities and aborted plans had brought you here, to him. </p><p>And then, Moriarty's eyes are back on you, and his glee has returned - you can see it written across his face. </p><p>"Well then, Cinderella. Have you decided how we'll kill me?" Moriarty asks, the strength of his grip on your face increasing fractionally. </p><p>"We both know you won't stay dead for long." You tease, leaning into his touch and delighting in the way he sighs happily. </p><p>"Mmh, no. Seems rather permanent, but..." He seems to consider it for a second, like he's seriously weighing up the option of killing himself. It prompts your heart to start pounding in your chest.</p><p>To Moriarty, death is trivial. The fear of it is entirely foreign to him. There have been times where he has longed for it so intensely that he brought down devastation on everybody around him in the hopes that somebody would lash out and end it all for good. End him for good. That, at the very least, would be an interesting way to go. </p><p>So far, Sherlock has been the only one up for the challenge. He had been the only one capable of comprehending Moriarty's mind in any minute way until you came along. Between you and Sherlock, he was understood in his entirety. </p><p>"But I prefer you alive." You say firmly.</p><p>Moriarty just nods, almost numbly. Being numb isn't a new feeling - it's his standard state of being. The over-exaggeration of emotion is really just there to compensate for the lack of it's presence. And yet, he doesn't think there was ever a time he had felt like that in your presence. </p><p>First, he had been intrigued by Sherlock's new toy. An abused arsonist who murdered her step-family and enjoyed it. That alone was delightful. Then, you'd come to understand him in some way, and offer a companionship that neither of you had ever really had before. </p><p>He doubted there had ever been anybody else who preferred him alive. Who didn't actively wish death upon him for all that he'd done. In that moment, he's enraptured, completely ensnared in a trap you didn't even know you had set.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. cinderella you will go to the ball</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Faking a death in a way that would convince somebody with a mind as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes' wouldn't be an easy feat. </p><p>However, Moriarty had let you know what you had to work with, but he insisted that you be the one in charge of actually making it appear he was dead. It was his way of showing his faith, by trusting you with this monumental task, the culmination of the game, the final move. </p><p>The game needed to end voluntarily - by forcing Sherlock to defeat himself, to fall, to fail to stay alive. </p><p>The final moves would be a series of actions that had already begun. Moriarty had convinced Sherlock that he had a code which would break into anywhere - the series of break-ins that he had conducted were all just advertising points for bigger organisations who were desperate to get their filthy little paws on it. </p><p>Next, Sherlock's reputation would fall. The great, beloved 'Reichenbach Hero' would henceforth be considered a con-artist, a man who tricked the world into believing he was of a superior intellect.  He would be reduced to a fraud. In turn, so would Moriarty, really. He, too, would have to make it seem like everything had been a farce. </p><p>But first, the tale of Hansel and Gretel would come to pass. </p><p>You and Moriarty co-wrote this variation of the tale. In your version, Hansel and Gretel would be, for all intents and purposes, abandoned by their parents at boarding school. From there, the wicked witch would lure them out not with a house made of candy, but with the threat of violence. </p><p>From there, they would gorge themselves silly on sweets. But the witch was never planning on eating the children, not this time. No - the food would be poisoned, just enough to cause some serious damage, but not to kill them. </p><p>You didn't really want to kill children. You had been one so long ago, and though you had been robbed of your childhood, it would feel wrong to take their lives before they had the opportunity to grow up and compose a fairytale of their own. </p><p>In fact, you didn't even have an urge to kill. You weren't some crazed serial killer - you had looked for retribution and found it in the ashes of your childhood home. This wasn't some deep, otherworldly calling for you. The blood that you wanted had already been spilled. </p><p>You and Moriarty could understand each other on a certain level, and you didn't have much of a desire to leave. There was nowhere for you to go, and you were almost in his debt now that he had helped you evade Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>Today would be the last day of school for Max and Claudette Bruhl. </p><p>Their father was an important diplomat, an ambassador to the US, and he had raised two boarding school brats who would be swiftly swiped out from under him, stolen amidst the chaos of the last day of school. </p><p>As usual, you're lounging around in Moriarty's study, perched on the edge of his desk. He's been having meetings with some of his henchmen. They'll come and go, flitting in and out of his study. Some will hand him pieces of paper, files, memory sticks, or if they're feeling particularly brave, will give him an oral report. </p><p>He scrutinises each one of them carefully. One doesn't become a successful criminal whilst retaining their naivety. As much as Moriarty can sometimes act unhinged, swaying quickly between moods, he can be cold and calculated when he needs to be. His success relies upon it. </p><p>You're almost surprised that he's tolerated you this much - that he lets you sit on his desk whilst he discusses heinous plots. And then, of course, you remember that you're Cinderella. The girl that killed, maimed, burnt the house down and ended up as an object of fascination for both Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. </p><p>There's music playing - something fast and upbeat. You don't really catch the lyrics, but you're content to sit there and sway slightly, just revelling in the melody. </p><p>There's just been another henchman enter the room, swiftly handing Moriarty a file before retreating from the study. </p><p>He flips through it, dark eyes scanning over all the stray pieces of information, before he glances up at you. "Bored, Cinderella?" </p><p>"Not at all," You shake your head slightly. And you're not. You feel sated, sitting there as the music's playing, just watching him. "Got any updates yet?" </p><p>"The kids have been taken." He says, dully. </p><p>Those words should strike ice into your heart - make you feel afraid of him. Max and Claudette are just kids, mindless, playful and mostly innocent. Dually, they're spoiled brats who have a propensity for picking on their fellow students because they hold themselves in very high regard. </p><p>You're not worried, though. They'll live, and that's fine. They may be kids, but they've also been given grand roles - pawns in the game. </p><p>For a time, you had presumed that was what you were, too. Just another piece to be manipulated and moved around until Sherlock and Moriarty tore each other to pieces. But you had soon learnt that this wasn't how Moriarty treated his pawns. </p><p>"Oh." Is all that you say, humming absently. </p><p>"They haven't even touched their food yet, though." The corners of his mouth quirk upwards in amusement. </p><p>"How long do you think it will take for Sherlock to put together that I'm with you now?" You ask, contorting your body slightly as you turn to look at him. </p><p>Moriarty scoffs. "Mmh, he could have figured it out ages ago, or he may not have even put the dots together yet. If he hasn't, then Hansel and Gretel should give him a clue." </p><p>"Oh, paying homage to me? How lovely," You say teasingly, your voice descending into a purr. </p><p>He stiffens for a second, leveling you with an indecipherable look. "Well, it's only fair, isn't it? Can't have everything go my way all the time - that'd be boring." </p><p>"So that's why I'm here?" You grin, completely playful in your tone as you lean over to place a hand under his jaw. Your thumb skims his cheek, your pointer finger laying against his chin, and the rest of your fingers splaying over the top of his neck. </p><p>You use your hand to force his head up slightly, making him look you in the eyes. Beneath your fingers, you can feel his pulse ever so lightly. His blood rushes beneath your fingers, pumping in time with his heartbeat. </p><p>He's held your face like this a myriad of times. Frequently, he had been using it as a means of intimidating you, of making you see who's really in control. It feels heady, intimate even, to have those dynamics reversed. </p><p>And even more significant still, for him to allow you to do so. </p><p>Moriarty leans into your touch ever-so-slightly, minutely indulgent in your grip. It was neither gentle nor forceful - somehow you had achieved a frustrating balance between the two. He wasn't sure whether he wanted you to be softer with him, ghosting your fingertips over his skin, or whether he wanted you to grip him so hard he bruised, and the memory of your touch would be stamped upon him, a brutish declaration of affection. </p><p>"You're here because I took you from Sherlock." He says, but his voice sounds strained, breathy. </p><p>Perhaps it's just because he likes to be challenged - it excites him. It dims the boredom of everyday life and allows him to be distracted, fully engaged with his opponent. Or, it could be because it's you.</p><p>"I wasn't his to steal." You retort. </p><p>"Mmh, no. You were his obsession first - his next case, the next me." </p><p>You can't refrain from scoffing. "I'm not the next you." </p><p>Moriarty grins. His eyes are like obsidian pools - you think to call them black ice - dangerous and bound to send you into a lethal collision, studying you so carefully. In a way, he's looking at you the same way he does his grand plans, like you're something to be proud of. "No, nobody can be the next me. There's no next me. Though, I suppose you would be the next best thing, or the next worst thing if that's how you'd like to put it." </p><p>"Because I'm your partner." You finish for him, your grip on his jaw tightening ever so subtly as he shakes his head minutely. </p><p>"Because you're mine, Cinderella. I don't share, and especially not with Sherlock." </p><p>Truly, you had thought you understood him. But, apparently, the complexities of Moriarty's mind still eluded you. Or, perhaps, they didn't, but you weren't inclined to actually try and decipher what he had meant. For years, your life had been so precarious - first with the deaths of your parents and then the tumultuous abuse from your step-family, culminating in their deaths.</p><p> This balance with Moriarty was one you weren't prepared to upset. Not yet. Not even as your stomach erupted into a flurry of butterflies and heat rushes to your cheeks. </p><p>Belonging in its rawest form is possession, a bone-deep need to brand and claim. Those reverent words, flowing freely from his lips, sound like gospel to you. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The disappearance of the Bruhl children demands an investigation, and an intense one at that. These aren't just missing children, they are the missing children of an ambassador to the U.S. Everybody familiar with these kinds of cases knows that time is of the essence, and it certainly is in this case. </p><p>The ambassador asks for the best - Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>Sherlock dissects the scene, a children's dormitory at a posh boarding school, piece by piece. He looks utterly out of place stood in a children's dorm room. His ice blue eyes traverse over every available piece of information, roaming over the finest of details from the exact shade of pink of the bedsheets, to the year the children's toys were created. </p><p>Most significantly, he finds a book encased in plain brown packaging which is emblazoned by a red seal. A complete collection of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales. </p><p>The book itself was fairly new, untouched even. The Brothers Grimm had compiled their collection of fairy tales into two volumes, publishing them in the early eighteen hundreds. Their stories were not created by them - rather, they were folk tales passed down between generations, transcribed and mildly adapted by the brothers to preserve the germanic culture. </p><p>Their stories, the stories of their people, were raw, bloody and scary. They were created to caution, horrify and terrorise, later sanitised by corporations like Disney to make the stories more palatable to younger audiences. </p><p>He storms through to Max's room, followed swiftly by a stony-faced John, Lestrade and Donovan. The three hang about the room awkwardly, watching as Sherlock performs the same rituals he had done in Claudette's room. </p><p>He dashes about the room, making grand, sweeping gestures with his hands and muttering rapidly under his breath. His words are so fast that they can only catch muted, nonsensical fragments of his monologuing, </p><p>Between the girls' and boys' rooms, there isn't many differences that the other detectives pick up on. The walls are a pale blue rather than a rosy pink, and Max's collection of books and toys are slightly less organised than his sisters' had been. There is, however, plenty for Sherlock to pick up on. </p><p>He converses with John for a while, his voice urgent - frustrated that nobody is ever able to keep up with his racing mind. </p><p>Sherlock sniffs wildly, rummaging through Max's belongings, ducking beneath his bed for just a moment, rising seconds later cradling a cricket bat. </p><p>"Get Anderson." He demands, his voice cold, unrelenting. He doesn't seem very amused in that moment - rather, he's annoyed that he's being forced to rely on others, even if it's for the sake of two missing children. </p><p>From there, the linseed oil marring the powder blue walls is discovered through the use of UV light. </p><p>HELP US is smeared on the wall next to Max's bed, glowing softly. His handwriting is scruffy, shaky, his fingertips had probably been trembling as he'd done it, praying that the encroaching intruder wouldn't catch his covert messages. </p><p>Anderson and Sherlock antagonise each other as they examine the luminescent trail of footprints and smeared writing. The two exchange biting words, desperate to insult one another and to finally have the last word. </p><p>The footprints are a neon blue in the UV light, fluorescing brightly whilst telling a dark tale. Sherlock follows them, quickly deducing from their gait that the intruder held a gun to Max's head, forcing him to walk in front, before Claudette was taken next. </p><p>It's not until Sherlock and John are back in the lab at St. Bartholomew's  Hospital that everything slides into place. </p><p>Sherlock rigorously tests the samples, identifying the most minute of molecules on them, mentally cataloguing each piece of information. The sole of the shoe would act as a passport, one which led to a single destination that it was impossible to return from. Moriarty. Freshly acquitted, on the loose, and the first thing he does is go after children to instigate Sherlock. </p><p>Most of the samples dissolve in the liquid easily, though there are a few that have to be aided by a naked flame flickering up against the test tube. They fizz, bubbles maneuvering through the liquid deftly, rising quickly to rest on the surface before popping open soundlessly. The samples' main components are chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation, and most oddly, a single molecule of glycerol, in addition to a fifth substance that had yet to be identified.</p><p>It would be easy to believe that to be a strange coincidence, but that would be naive. It had to be assumed that he was only seeing what Moriarty wanted him to see. That single, lone glycerol molecule had to be important somehow. </p><p>He peers through the microscope, pouring over each piece of data, letting his mind draw the connections between them, mentally cross referencing every component with areas of the country, considering where would be the most ideal place to hide two children. </p><p>Across the lab, John is flicking through the glossy crime scene photos, passing them between his fingers and scrutinising each one with weary eyes. He finds that one of the many photos depicts a plain brown envelope with a red wax seal, and another that featured a close up of the seal. </p><p>The picture is not the best quality, and it's hard to discern what the seal depicts. John looks stricken for a moment, his head snapping up and his eyes wide. He doesn't need a picture to recognise what the crimson seal is - he'd seen it before. </p><p>Emblazoned in the hardened red wax is the image of a high-heeled shoe. He knew that, he recognised it intimately, because they had received one that was identical earlier. That same boring brown envelope with a blood-red wax seal had appeared outside 221B Baker Street. </p><p>"Sherlock," John calls out, tearing his eyes away from the picture to look at Sherlock, who is hunched over the microscope and only gives a miniscule hum in response. "This envelope that was in her trunk, there's another one."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>John rushes over to his discarded coat, foraging through the pockets desperately, before his hands emerge from the pockets with an identical beige envelope. "On our doorstep. Found it today." </p><p>Upon seeing Sherlock's stern, critical glance, John hurries around the bench clutching the package, mindful not to knock over any of the chemicals. </p><p>"Yes, look at that. Exactly the same seal." John declares happily as Sherlock peers at the envelope that John presents him with, scrutinising it carefully. Sherlock's pale fingers dip into the torn envelope, carefully handling its contents. </p><p>His fingers crush some of the crumbs between them, letting the pieces of food fall over his hands. "Breadcrumbs." Sherlock says. </p><p>"Uh-huh. It was there when I got back." John agrees. </p><p>"A little trace of breadcrumbs. A book of fairytales." Sherlock says, images flashing through his mind rapidly. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly. "Two children, led into the forest, leave a trail of breadcrumbs..." </p><p>John frowns. "That's Hansel and Gretel. What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?"</p><p>"The kind that likes to boast. The sort that thinks this is all a game. He said it to me, back in the flat. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." The words just tumble from Sherlock's mouth, and John can't really make sense of them. As always, his mind is racing a mile a minute, rapidly processing every tiny bit of data. </p><p>Moriarty couldn't help himself - he couldn't stay away. Not when the game was yet to be completed. </p><p>"Sherlock, you're not -" John tries, cutting himself off with his own exasperated sigh. "Why? Just why?"</p><p>"He's the villain, of course." Sherlock responds with a flippant wave of his hand. "But this isn't just villany. He's inspired. He's found himself a new muse and he's paying homage to her." </p><p>John just looks confused, looking around to see if there had been something he had missed. </p><p>"No, this isn't just paying homage. This is an act of worship, almost. Oh, terribly romantic." Sherlock breathes. He quickly turns the bag over, eyeing the crimson seal almost greedily. The red wax was emblazoned with what wasn't just a high heel - no. It was Cinderella's glass slipper, the most prominent artefact in her fairytale. </p><p>"Who? What?" John asks, exhaustedly.</p><p>"Moriarty's found a muse in Cinderella." Sherlock's lips quirk upwards in amusement. "And he wants me to know that he's courting her, in his own way." </p><p>"Y/N L/N? The girl that killed her step-family? Hacked them to bits and then burnt the house down? The girl that you couldn't find?" Questions fly from John's mouth rapidly, in a never-ending stream. There is simply so much to unpack and he finds himself not understanding a single one of Sherlock's conclusions. </p><p>"He's doing this one to impress her. He's broken into the Bank of England, the Tower of London and Pentonville prison, but fairytales are for her." He concludes.</p><p>John lets out a strangled kind of noise that originates deep in the back of his throat. "Some kids have been kidnapped because Moriarty is trying to get laid?"  </p><p>"Don't be crass." Sherlock chides him quickly, leveling John with an icy stare. "Ordinary people like flowers or dinners at fancy restaurants. Cinderella likes revenge and arson. Moriarty wanted her just to be able to say that he got to her before I did. And now, he's enamoured."</p><p>"Just to be clear though, the only hope for these children is that she bangs him?" </p><p>"No. There's probably not much hope for them at all. She likes giving fairytales a different ending, and that's how he's decided he wants her, he'll give her all the fairytales she wants. Can't blame him for being inspired - she's smart. She's a planner." Sherlock muses, his eyes lighting up. </p><p>He practically jumps up, moving back over to the microscope. "The fifth substance - it's part of the fairytale. PGPR!" Sherlock exclaims triumphantly. </p><p>"I'm sorry, what?"</p><p>"PGPR." Sherlock says flatly. "It's used in making chocolates. Oh - the Witch's house." He seems to come to a sudden realisation, his icy eyes widening slightly. "I wonder if she'll want to burn that one down, too." </p><p>"Why can't they just date like a normal couple? Go out, see a movie, get dinner...?" John trails off.</p><p>Sherlock scoffs leaping up, looking ready to dash out of the lab. "Neither of them are normal. He'd be offended gravely by that, and she's just beginning to realise that she doesn't want normal. No, Moriarty doesn't offer normal." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Hansel and Gretel - Claudette and Max - are found cowering in an abandoned sweet factory in Addlestone. Little Max's body is already limp. His head lays in his sister's lap, his chest rising and falling too shallowly, his breathing ragged. </p><p>Claudette's not in much better shape, shivering uncontrollably. She flinches at every miniscule noise, her eyes wide, fearful and brimming with tears. Her little baby brother, always so brave, so courageous, is now barely breathing. He hasn't opened his eyes in some time, and she keeps her tiny fingertips pressed against his wrist. </p><p>His weak, fluttering pulse is the only thing that gives her any hope. The factory is a place of nightmares - cold, dangerous, and so, so far from home. She thinks of her father, and will whisper to her little brother in the most confident voice she can muster that he will be looking for them. </p><p>Their father is a very important man - devoted to his work, but more than willing to go to the ends of the earth to find his children. Claudette just wants to return to him well, but her stomach churns everytime she moves too quickly. Her head often feels like it's being split open from the force of the headaches she gets. </p><p>Her own body betrays her, her hands twitching involuntarily. It scares her, to think what will happen. The shaking is terrifying - it makes her feel out of control, and like somebody is gripping her roughly and preparing to toss her around. But, the tremors are nothing compared to the way Max's lips begin to turn blue and he struggles to get any air into his lungs. </p><p>It's Sargent Donovan that finds the two of them. She offers them soft, albeit empty words of comfort, and immediately darts towards Max to check for a pulse. It's there, but weakening by the minute. He looks so fragile, so ill, more like a cadaver than a boy who aspires to become a spy. </p><p>"It'll be okay, I'm with the police." She says reassuringly. "You'll both be alright." </p><p>Claudette nods her head, her reality too distorted for her to even attempt to talk. The world is bleary, everything hurts, and her little brother is so cold - she can't even feel the rise and fall of his chest anymore. </p><p>"Over here!" Sally calls out. </p><p>Sargent Donovan had been the one to locate the Bruhl children - but Sherlock, sequestered away on the other side of the factory, had found the cause of their suffering. The food had been poisoned. The gingerbread house wasn't laced with arsenic or cyanide. No, not anything that uncreative.</p><p>Moriarty had instead opted for mercury. The food wasn't even laced at all. Rather it was the wrappers. Mercury wasn't much dangerous when ingested, but it vapourised at room temperature, and when inhaled, the effects could be devastating. It was a nerve poison, spreading from the lungs, seeping into the blood, and then into the brain. </p><p>A cruel and unusual punishment, indeed. But then again, that was precisely what villains specialised in. </p><p>Sherlock couldn't help but wonder, though. Had you been impressed by it? Was this the kind of gift that you revelled in?</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. the fairy godmother is a witch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The case of the abducted, poisoned Bruhl children spells the beginning of the end for Sherlock Holmes. The second that Claudette screams at the mere sight of the Reichenbach Hero, a seed of doubt is planted in the mind of Sally Donovan. Sherlock was meant to be her saviour. He had cracked the case, saving the lives of both her and her little brother. They would face possible illness for years to come, stunted nerve growth, possibly seizures and the loss of some fine motor skills, but they would live. </p><p>She should be worshipping him, begging relentlessly for an autograph, or repeatedly telling him how thankful she is. Instead, Claudette screams bloody murder, a harsh, ear-splitting yell erupting from her throat the second she lays her eyes on him. </p><p>It doesn't take long for that tiny seed of doubt in Sally Donovan's mind to grow into something monstrous. </p><p>She had always thought there would come a point where Sherlock would crash and burn. Solving other people's mysteries would no longer fill the void, and he would have to create one of his own. He had enjoyed Cinderella so much - a girl who brutally killed her family and burnt the house down. She managed to evade him, and be became a man obsessed with finding her. </p><p>Perhaps, still riding on the thrill of not catching her, he creates himself a new fairytale. Hansel and Gretel. Except, he made an error. Claudette remembered him. </p><p>And so, Donovan goes to Lestrade with her theory. That monstrous, all-consuming doubt settles into him, too. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It's late at night when Moriarty returns. He strides through the house smiling serenely, practically waltzing passed his henchmen. They don't even bat an eye at his outlandish behaviour - they've probably learnt it's best not to. </p><p>"What time do you call this?" You say teasingly, though your grin falters when your eyes land on his attire. No Westwood today, apparently. Instead, he looks normal, which is disconcerting. It makes your stomach churn to see him look mundane. It's just not right - it's like seeing the sun at night.</p><p>Thankfully, he's not wearing the same tourist disguise that he had when he infiltrated the Tower of London, but he is wearing a dark jacket that you think is faux leather, and another stupid hat. </p><p>"More importantly... what are you wearing?" You ask, unable to keep the confusion out of your voice. </p><p>Moriarty scoffs, "Oh, trust me, I hate this just as much as you do. Today I was a cab driver. Quaint, don't you think?" </p><p>"Driving Sherlock around?" </p><p>Moriarty nods, his lips quirking upwards as you reach up and pull the hat from his head. It's a scratchy kind of material - tweed, or something similar. He looks better without it, you think. You have half a mind to discard it simply because of how offensive it had been to your eyes. </p><p>"Yes. He was dreadfully boring, as always. Did make me quite happy to be the one to tell him that everyone's turning on him, though." </p><p>"Rather easy, don't you think?" You say tiredly. </p><p>There's some minute part of you that thought it would be harder. Sherlock's meant to be the hero, isn't he? You don't think there had ever been a story in which the hero wasn't beloved by all. And yet, his closest allies seemed all too ready to betray him. These were the people he had spent years assisting, and they were ready to believe, at the drop of a hat, that he was capable of attempting to kill children. </p><p>You had come to understand that John would probably be the only one to stand at Sherlock's side to the end - loyal to him regardless of what everybody else thought. Not too long ago, that kind of unwavering faith would have seemed unfamiliar to you. Now you could understand it. </p><p>"Sherlock's never made much of an effort to endear himself to anyone." Moriarty says by way of explanation. "Bit of a mistake there, if you ask me." </p><p>"John will stay loyal to the end." You predict, staring up at Moriarty. You're almost chest to chest with him now, separated by only a few inches. </p><p>"Oh, yes. Of course he will. That's always been his destiny, though." He says cheerily, before his expression turns stony. His dark eyes are almost frozen over when he looks down on you - cold but inquisitive, perpetually lacking vulnerability. "What about you, Cinderella? Are you staying loyal?" </p><p>You frown slightly, toying with the stupid tweed hat in your hands. "To you?" </p><p>"Well, yes. Who else?" He sounds irked, his lips curling up into a sneer. "Once the game's over where are you going to go?" </p><p>It strikes you then that you don't really want to leave. There's no undying urge for you to flee, to burn this place down too. Here is every comfort you've ever wanted - you can allow yourself to feel at peace. There is no wider freedom that you crave - everything's already here, in your grasp. </p><p>"Do you want me to leave? Run away when the clock strikes twelve?" You ask, sounding more bitter than you intend to. </p><p>"Is that what you want?" Moriarty inquires. It takes you a second to realise that he's not being sarcastic - he's genuinely asking. This is something his great mind can't decipher on its own. You are a blind spot to him, somebody he's only able to understand because you let him. </p><p>In a way, he's weary of your answer - and he supposes that he's glad he's feeling something, at least. He always does when he's around you. You're an intriguing, intoxicating presence that seems to perfectly slot into his life. Your answer, just one little word, has the potential to send him to his knees. Normally, he's the one in complete control - but this feels totally elusive to him. </p><p>You freeze up, your grip going lax on the hat. It slips from between your fingers and drops to the floor with a dull thud, but neither of you bother to look at it. </p><p>"No." You say quietly. Your voice is hoarse and your throat feels raw. It feels like you're back in that god-forsaken hotel room, surrounded by the scent of chemicals, pushed up against the door by Moriarty, a glass slipper glinting evilly at you from its place on the desk. </p><p>This doesn't feel like a liberating thing to say. It's the honest truth, and despite your loose partnership with Moriarty, this feels too much. This feels like something he could use against you - somehow, this feels like worse leverage than the fact that he knows who you are, your crimes, and is the reason you're not in jail. </p><p>He grins then, his dark eyes lighting up as he looks down on you. "Oh, good. I'd hate for the story to be over so soon." </p><p>"And when you've written Sherlock out of it?" </p><p>"Happily ever after? Isn't that how you want it to end?" Moriarty suggests flippantly. </p><p>"I think you'll be bored." You say. "Once Sherlock's gone there'll be nobody for you to antagonise. How are you going to go back to just consulting on crimes once he's gone? You'll miss him - you just don't want to admit it." </p><p>He scoffs and scowls down at you, though there's no heat in his gaze. This is all for show, and you feel almost privileged to be able to realise that. "Well, I have you for entertainment, don't I?" </p><p>"And what will we do? Travel around, finding all the Sherlocks of the world, challenging them to more games?" You suggest lightly, suppressing a laugh that threatens to tear from your throat. </p><p>Moriarty looks like he had been struck then. His face completely lights up, all mock anger dissipating rapidly. "Oh, Cinderella. What a lovely idea. I am just so glad that Sherlock gained an interest in you, and that I found you first." </p><p>He seems almost dazed by the idea. He already is passionate enough about the times you get involved in planning his schemes, but the thought of the two of you taking on every individual angel in the world and snapping their halos one by one is almost too much to bear. It's just as intoxicating to him as your presence, really. </p><p>"Is that our happily ever after, then?" You ask. </p><p>"Oh, it can be." Moriarty sounds almost wistful. He looks down at you, and you think that maybe you've finally managed to decipher the emotion that's blazing in his dark eyes. It's longing, or something broadly similar to it. You realise then, that in some way, he's come to see you as his means of continuing to live. </p><p>There's a bleak hypothesis that nags at the back of your mind - the thought that if you weren't there, if the two of you had never met, that perhaps he wouldn't even give himself the challenge of defying death. That's your task, and without you there to complete it for him, he would have killed himself. </p><p>The thought of you and he not occupying the same space, of having never known each other, of him being dead, his body rotting in the ground, and you decaying in a prison cell, is so deeply uncomfortable that it feels like a blow to your soul. </p><p>Perhaps your fairy tale - your macabre version of Cinderella was only able to end in happy ever after because of him. </p><p>"To happily ever after, then." You say, gazing up at him warmly. There's longing in your eyes, too.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> The next component of Moriarty's game - of your game - is the widespread public doubt. There weren't many people that knew Sherlock Holmes in any meaningful way, and even fewer still who knew him and liked him. Just as Moriarty had said, Sherlock didn't bother to endear himself to anyone. </p><p>He had a brilliant mind, hyper-logical and hungry, and there was no doubt that he could be capable of being a nice person that people wanted to engage with. The issue was that he simply didn't bother. He saw no need to make himself likeable, not to his co-workers, his acquaintances, nor to the media. </p><p>Or, apparently, journalist Kitty Riley. </p><p>She was a fierce little thing, ambitious, driven, vindictive. She was also absolutely desperate, utterly ravenous for a bigger story, and she was willing to do all sorts of things to get it. Her particular brand of lust for knowledge and success came with the caveat that she was easily tricked. If a story was phenomenal enough, it would be easy to sell it to her, even with flimsy evidence. </p><p>As a direct result of Sherlock's inability to endear himself to anyone, she had no reluctance when it came to accepting the possibility he was a fraud. Just like everybody he had ever talked down to, she was delighted at the possibility that his brilliance could be fabricated. His entire life would disintegrate, each and every component of his personality falling from grace and shattering like glass. It was only a matter of time until he did, too. </p><p>Moriarty had been in contact with her pretty much since his trial, covertly grooming her for her role in his game. It was odd to see the way he treated her compared to the way he treated you. She was a pawn, and he regarded her as such. It still occasionally took you back when you realised just how much trust he put in you. </p><p>For her, he put on a mask. He played the demure, out-of-work actor Rich Brook, appealing to her with his false, albeit compelling, story and his big, dark eyes. You had helped him fake some of the 'evidence' that he supplied her with - the little newspaper clippings had been composed by you, whilst he looked over your shoulder and grinned at them. </p><p>Any evidence that Kitty had about Rich Brook existing were decent enough fakes, although it was all rather sparse. What really sold the whole thing was the information about Sherlock that had been wrangled out of Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother, by Moriarty. From what you had come to understand about that encounter, Mycroft hadn't asked nicely when he was trying to get information out of Jim. </p><p>The way he described it had made Mycroft seem like he had tortured Jim. Though Moriarty seemed pretty unaffected by it, describing it as a 'bland' experience, his indifference did nothing to quell the storm of anger that had arisen inside of you, desperate for some kind of revenge on Jim's behalf. There was no doubt in your mind that if you ever crossed paths with Mycroft Holmes then he would not be leaving the encounter unscathed. He would be lucky to escape with his life.</p><p>Jim had brushed you off with a grin, deciding instead to distract you by complementing the way you wrote the fraudulent articles. You really, really detested the way that he knew it would work - that a few words of praise from him could get you flustered. </p><p>"You write so nicely, Cinderella." He had said. "Ever consider being a journalist?"</p><p>"I prefer arsonist." You had retorted, though you couldn't keep the smile off your face. </p><p>Moriarty had simply chuckled at you. "I think I prefer you that way, too. Much more honest, not to mention interesting. I bet you looked so pretty, standing there and watching the flames."</p><p>Still, despite you being privy to his plans, and being more than aware of the fact that he was tricking her, you still didn't particularly like the way he interacted with the journalist. Kitty would write to him in a way that made her hunger apparent - you were pretty certain she was more interested in the story than him, but you weren't fond of her tone either way. </p><p>She acted far too familiar for a woman that didn't know him at all. She had never seen even a glimpse behind the mask, not like you had. She wasn't capable of comprehending him - she would rather be the one to take Sherlock down, to have the last word, all because he hadn't been very polite. </p><p>And, to further sell the narrative, Moriarty had to go and live with her. She had offered him shelter, like he was some kind of fugitive, as if he was ever in any danger at all. That particular email had left you with an insidious kind of anger in your gut. This wasn't a kind of anger you were overtly familiar with. </p><p>This was a kind of anger that reminded you of the times when you were back in that tiny, cold basement and you would reflect on the luxuries that your step-sisters were permitted and you were forbidden. They would sleep on silk sheets in warm bedrooms. They never had to worry about cleaning. They simply got to be children. They had what you wanted. </p><p>Except, this wasn't a resentful anger. This was jealousy. </p><p>Oh, you did not like that at all. You dislike it so much that you can compare the feeling of realising that you were feeling jealous to being hit with a brick. It hurt, and left you in a daze - you felt like your entire world had been shifted on its axis, but nobody seemed to notice except for you. </p><p>You probably shouldn't be feeling this way about a man who had quite literally kidnapped you not too long ago. And yet, he cares for you, has given you freedom, has let you build your happy ever after, and he treats you as an equal...</p><p>You desperately shake off this line of thinking. </p><p>James hadn't been gone for long, and yet you were mentally idle without him. Physically, there were a great many tasks for you to do. The plot you were executing required a great attention to detail, and you couldn't afford to stop paying attention. </p><p>During his farce of a trial, Sherlock had described Moriarty as a spider, in the dead centre of a web made of a thousand terrible threads. As he often was, Sherlock was right. Those terrible, violent threads had come together to form an intricately woven web that was as fine as a tapestry. Each thread had been created and formed with both care and aggression. </p><p>For now, you would be in charge of them, maintaining the tapestry and preventing it from unravelling. </p><p>Moriarty had left you with a grin and an assurance that he wouldn't be gone for long. "Don't worry, Cinderella. I'll be back before your carriagemen turn back into mice." He had said. Once again, he had left the mansion dressed unlike himself. </p><p>He had worn the skin of the fictional Rich Brook all too well. Rich Brook - Reichenbach. He couldn't stop himself from being clever - you'd regarded it as gimmicky and obvious, but you'd smiled nonetheless when he unveiled the name of his alter ego to you.</p><p>You would regularly check the phone he had given you. Moriarty would text you often, frequently poking fun at Kitty Riley, much to your amusement and relief. He seemed to feel as much disdain for her as you did, which reassured you greatly. </p><p>The screen of your phone lit up, signifying a new text. 'Kitty-cat sent me out to get coffee. JM.' [9:03]</p><p>'I'm tempted to get some and poison it. She's BORING me. It would be much more fun to watch her die. JM.' [9:04]</p><p>The corners of your lips quirk up into a whimsical smile. </p><p>'Stick to the plan, please. We can kill her off later, if you'd like.' [9:04] You reply, typing quickly, your fingers darting deftly across the screen. You're not entirely sure whether or not you're joking about that. </p><p>He'd probably kill her anyway, simply because he found her to be boring. If there was one thing you knew about yourself, it was that you were comfortable with alleviating anger via murder. And Kitty Riley made you a special kind of mad. It was like simply by living with him, she was replacing you in some way - though she was far less entertaining to Moriarty than you were.</p><p>'Why did she send you out anyway? Isn't Rich meant to be in hiding?' [9:05] It takes you just a moment to send a second text.</p><p>'Coffee is more important, apparently. So I'm going to pretend that the store is out of it. JM.' [9:05]</p><p>A laugh bubbles up in your throat. You feel lighter when you're texting him. 'Wow, I think that may be your most evil plan yet.' [9:05]</p><p>'Yes, it's definitely much worse than those children I kidnapped. JM.' [9:06]</p><p>'Those children WE kidnapped.' [9:06] You correct him quickly, sending the text and then grimacing. The Bruhl kids may see life-long nerve damage and respiratory problems, particularly the younger one, Max, who had ate the laced chocolates almost ferociously. But, Moriarty had assured you that those kids weren't the nicest. </p><p>Sure, poisoning them, nearly to the point of death, was cruel, but it was revenge for all the other kids they had bullied. Moriarty didn't care - he would have been fine poisoning perfectly angelic little children, but for you, he had chosen some brats who liked to pick on others because their dad's position gave them a warped sense of power. </p><p>A few tiny grey dots pop up on the screen, signifying that he was typing. </p><p>'Sherly's home. I'll see you later, Cinderella. JM.' [9:07]</p><p>Upon reading those few words, your heart leaps into your throat, and you have to take a few calming breaths to feel stable enough to construct a reply. This will be the final confrontation before the fall. Before you fulfill your task from Moriarty and conquer death. </p><p>'Good luck. Be careful.' [9:08] You reply, biting your lip as your fingers dance across the screen.</p><p>You would be absolutely enraged if anything happened to him under Kitty Riley's care. She would suffer greatly for it, and you were sure that you would be capable of inflicting injuries far more painful onto her than you had onto your own step-family. </p><p>You let out a pained little huff, staring at the screen, constantly just waiting for the next text. Half of your time was spent either waiting or planning - you never really got to participate, except from the shadows. Which was fine, really. The planning tended to be more fun. Creating an intricate list of steps had always been something you excelled at. </p><p>Minutes trickle by far too slowly. You can only envision Sherlock storming into Kitty Riley's apartment, John trailing after him, both desperate to get the truth out and discover just what her big story would be. And then, Moriarty would burst in, now Rich Brook, acting demure and afraid for his life. </p><p>'Just left Kitty-cat's place. JM.' [9:27]</p><p>A shock of relief runs through you and you rush to reply to him. </p><p>'Are you okay?' [9:27] You reply quickly, your fingers fumbling to hit send. </p><p>'Perfectly fine. I'll be home in 10. JM.' [9:27] </p><p>'How was Sherlock?' [9:28] You can't help but to inquire. He's one of the people that scare you the most - he had come so close to finding you. So terribly close. And he's almost as interwoven in your life as Moriarty is - he'd been fascinated with you first, you had evaded him,  and now you were dedicating yourself to helping bring him down. </p><p>'Oooh. He was MAD. Especially when I told him I was a storyteller. Had to leave through a window. JM.' [9:28]</p><p>An exasperated groan escapes you - you can easily imagine Moriarty kicking out Kitty's window, letting the sharp fragments of glass scatter themselves over the street outside, and hurling himself onto the pavement below. It was risky, and probably exciting for him to be actually chased by Sherlock, turning their game into a physical cat and mouse chase as much as a mental one. </p><p>'And you're sure that you're okay?' [9:28] </p><p>'I'm fine, Cinderella. I can't wait to get home and go back to being me. Rich Brook is unbelievably boring, aside from Sherly running at me with a WILD look in his eyes. JM.' [9:28]</p><p>You snort indelicately. Time can't seem to go quickly enough - you're almost desperate for him to return home, just so you can check him over. Moriarty seems to have a tendency to be more careful with his criminal plans than himself, solely for the excitement of it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. the clock strikes midnight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Moriarty arrived home in a flurry of bodyguards. He stumbled through the grand entrance of the mansion grinning, his dark eyes alight with amusement as he called out for you. "Oh Cinderella, I'm hoooome."</p><p>The sound of his voice is muffled by the walls between you, but you quickly make your way out of his study, where you had been sequestered away whilst texting him, to join him in the foyer. The sight of the grandiose house doesn't disturb you the way it once had. This isn't imprisonment. You had experienced imprisonment - it was cold, dark, scary and rage-inducing. </p><p>You didn't feel any of those unwelcome emotions as you looked at him. "I'm glad you're back." The words slip from your mouth before you're able to stop them, and you try not to react too visibly to the pleased look that passes over his face. </p><p>Wearily, you eye his attire. Rich Brook didn't have a great fashion sense - he was all cable-knit cardigans, jeans that didn't fit right and scruffy hair. He was the complete opposite of Moriarty, which was precisely how he had been designed. His very appearance had been composed specifically to sow doubt. </p><p>"It feels like every time you come home you're wearing something atrocious." You scoff. </p><p>"Mmh, not very kind of you, Cinderella." He retorts teasingly. There's no real bite to his voice - there rarely ever is when he's talking to you. Ice and rage are reserved for others, others who could never even begin to comprehend the two of you. </p><p>"For somebody who dislikes ordinary people, you seem perfectly content to dress up as one." You remark. </p><p>Moriarty rolls his eyes. "Only for the game." </p><p>"Good, because I'm not a big fan of the cardigan." </p><p>He sighs, "You didn't like the hat either. There's no pleasing you, is there?" </p><p>"I am pleased. When you dress normally that is. I don't know - I just don't like seeing you dressed up as somebody else. Somebody normal. God, it's weird." You stumble over your words, descending into rambling as you glance up at him. You feel moderately more at ease now that he's back at home. </p><p>With an almost blank look, he shrugs the cardigan off, flinging it in the direction of one of his henchmen. Said henchman scrambles to catch the garment, snagging it from the air before it has the opportunity to hit the floor. Moriarty doesn't even spare him a second glance - he's much more preoccupied with looking at you. </p><p>There are a great many people on earth who would prefer him to be normal - to assume the visage of a normal man, somebody like Molly Hooper's boyfriend, the tourist, the cab driver, or his most recent moniker, out-of-work actor Rich Brook. The world would, undoubtedly, be safer that way. </p><p>You weren't to be counted among those people. You liked him the way he was - despite your minor disagreements over certain aspects of the plan, in particular the ethics of killing children, you don't strive to change him. In fact, the mere thought of him changing makes you uneasy. </p><p>He finds that it's one of the things he likes most about you. You find flaws in him, you disagree, but ultimately, you don't want him to reform himself. You don't want him to be a better man - you're perfectly content with the person he is right now. </p><p>It's lovely, really. </p><p>"Better?" Moriarty asks. </p><p>"Much better." You smile, before your eyes trail down to his arms. The white shirt he had worn as Rich Brook was short-sleeved, and the absence of that god-awful cardigan only served to unveil tiny wounds to you. </p><p>Across his forearms were a series of tiny cuts, red, puffy and agitated. Some of them were spotted with blood, already congealing around the wounds. </p><p>You wince at the sight, surging forwards to lift up one of his arms and inspect it further. Moriarty simply stares down at you, his lips slightly parted, as you gently, delicately, run your hands over his arm, turning it softly in your grasp, looking worriedly at the tiny cuts - most of them appear to be superficial, miniscule red lines where glass had grazed his arms and barely managed to scrape the skin. </p><p>"Was this from jumping through the window?" You ask. </p><p> Moriarty nods in confirmation. He's not so concerned about the cuts - they're tiny. They were a mild inconvenience at best. He'd felt true pain before and numbed himself to it easily. You knew that. There was no way he would have become so successful in his industry if he hadn't. </p><p>And yet, although you both know he's not hurt by the wounds, it feels rather intimate to have you care, inspecting his broken skin like he's precious - like his pain is something you want to take away. </p><p>In Jim's profession, there was no room for care. Admitting pain made you vulnerable, and yet, being looked after, being treated like somebody worthy of real concern, is intoxicating. To him, it is absolutely enrapturing to see you fuss over his wounds, your brow furrowed and your lips slightly parted. </p><p>You had always been so intriguing to him, from the very beginning. At first, you had been Sherlock's obsession - the woman who evaded him. And then, once he met you, he very swiftly came to understand why Sherlock was so interested. </p><p>"We should get a first aid kit." You mutter. </p><p>"They're tiny." He retorts, his voice a pale imitation of his normal biting sarcasm. In fact, he feels rather breathless, being this close to you. Oh - how you amaze him, with your fingers ghosting over his skin, soft and caring. It's so lovely, being caring with each other in the most minute of ways, and brutal with everybody else. </p><p>"They can still get infected, not to mention there could still be glass inside the cuts." You chide him easily, calling out to one of the bustling henchman. "Would you mind getting a first aid kit?" </p><p>The henchman nods stoically, rushing off without a glance backwards. It's become rather easy for you to step into a leadership role, especially when Moriarty is away. The men seem to respect your authority, too. Most of them are either mercenaries or ex-military, skilled fighters that are willing to accept dirty money and do morally reprehensible things. These were men that liked order, and money. Offering them those two things would get you anything you wanted. </p><p>"Did we seriously not plan another escape route that didn't involve you jumping out of a window?" You ask, biting the inside of your cheek. It feels like an appropriate escape route should have been one of the first things that you had planned - this feels like an oversight. These tiny cuts could have been so much worse. </p><p>"I would have gone through the door if I could, Cinderella." Moriarty says, his voice devoid of emotion. He says it like it's an obvious fact - though you don't think it is. He likes doing things for shock factor, and he especially likes making himself seem clever in front of Sherlock. Diving out of a window was far more impressive than using a door.</p><p>The henchman returns swiftly, a green box with a plus sign on the front clasped tightly in his hands. There's a slight perspiration on his forehead, a sheen of sweat just beginning to bead at his hairline. He walks so confidently, moving like a soldier, brisk and quickly. But there's a frenzied look in his eyes - pure, unbridled fear. His eyes dart to Moriarty's miniscule wounds, and he quickly looks away. </p><p>You readily accept the first aid box from him, dismissing him. "Thanks." You call out over your shoulder as he disappears into the throng of other, identically dressed, henchmen. Fumbling with the latches, you manage to tug the first aid kit open, revealing a myriad of medical equipment designed to treat smaller injuries - gauze, thread, bandages, saline solution, and wipes, among other things. </p><p>"Mmh, you know, Cinderella," Moriarty begins, off-handedly, as you open one of the sterilising wipes, "Even if we had a plan of escape, there was no guarantee I'd stick to it. I'm changeable, you know. My biggest flaw." </p><p>"I know." You sigh, tearing through the plastic packaging to get to the white wipe. It's folded into a tiny little square, and is infused with disinfectant. The alcoholic smell makes you wince as you unfurl it. Tentatively, you once again bring your hands to Moriarty's arm, lifting one up first, grazing the wipe over the wounds. </p><p>He doesn't even flinch, though you know it would hurt. He's experienced worse. This is nothing to him, but he does enjoy you patching him up, skating your fingers over his arms and inspecting his skin carefully. </p><p>"Doesn't this give you dèjá vu?" Moriarty asks, his voice lilting, teasing almost. </p><p>Immediately, your mind flashes back to your first day at his house. You had relentlessly tried to break the door to your room down, as ferocious as a wild animal trying to escape an enclosure, desperate to be free, to be uncaged. As a result, you had bloodied your knuckles. Later, you had perched on his desk as he bandaged your hands almost tenderly, talking about trophies.</p><p>"Oh, yes." You say, without really meaning to. "Hm. Strange to think that I used to hate it here. It's not a prison anymore, it's freedom." </p><p>Moriarty cocks his head to the side, looking at you softly for a moment, before a grin splits across his face. "Oh, I'm glad. You have such a fire in you, Cinderella."</p><p>"And let me guess, you want to burn?" The teasing remark slips from your mouth as you abandon your work on his arm, but only temporarily. You snag a pair of tweezers from the first aid kit, all shiny and brand new. There's a tiny, glistening piece of glass embedded into his upper arm, surrounded by specks of dried blood.</p><p>"Pfft, as if." He scoffs, though his grin doesn't fade. "I don't want to burn. I want to watch you burn everybody else." </p><p>"I'll add it to our to do list for our happily ever after grand tour." </p><p>His lips curl upwards, even as you knick his skin with the tweezers. Biting your lip, you carefully tug the small piece of glass from his skin. The absence of the glass shard leaves a small indentation, and prompts a thin stream of blood to trickle from it. </p><p>You abandon the tweezers, and go back to disinfecting the wound. </p><p>"When I patched you up, we talked about trophies." Moriarty says, watching you intently as you wipe his blood away. </p><p>"You have quite a collection." You remark. "Will you tell me about them?" Your eyes dart up to him, looking away from the blood and the cuts and the scrapes to see an unidentifiable look in his eyes. </p><p>It's something akin to caring. You had done for him what he had done for you, tenderly patching up his self-inflicted wounds. This was a mutual exchange, a kind of tenderness that the two of you had never shown to anybody else in recent years. </p><p>"I took my first trophy from the first person I ever killed. I wasn't very old at the time, I don't think. He was a swimmer, and he was a brat." Moriarty's voice descends into genuine, pure hatred for a moment as he recollects the first time he had ever taken a life. "He was a swimmer, and a good one. He had eczema, and it wasn't hard to get the botulinum in the meds." </p><p>It's not difficult for you to infer, simply from the sheer malice in his voice, that the boy he killed had been horrible - probably the murdering type. Perhaps nearly killing the Bruhl kids by poisoning them with mercury was just another reference to both his roots and yours - his murder of the swimmer, and yours as a fairytale. </p><p>"Did he suffer?" Is all that you feel the need to ask. </p><p>Moriarty's grin returns tenfold. "Oh, yes. He drowned - the thing he loved the most killed him slowly, painfully, filling up his lungs drop by drop. I took his shoes. They were his most prized possession. It was just another thing he loved that I had to take from him. The shoes aren't with the other trophies. I gave them to Sherlock a while back." </p><p>"I almost poisoned my step-family," You admit. It doesn't feel like a dirty secret, or a shameful confession. It just feels like another aspect of your life that you want to share with him. "I decided that it wouldn't be gratifying enough. Though, I assume you got away with it. Nobody knows you did it?" </p><p>He shakes his head slightly. "Nobody but you and Sherlock. Some of the other trophies are from a few of the earlier kills, before I had all of these minions to do it for me. Others are just ones that I liked." </p><p>"The most entertaining crimes?" You guess. </p><p>"The most entertaining crimes." He repeats, confirming your questioning statement. "Their deaths were the ones that made me feel alive."</p><p>You smile as you inspect your work. The cuts have been disinfected, and you begin to apply a salve to the worst of the wounds - the one on his upper arm where the glass had previously been lodged. </p><p>"If you killed me, would you take a trophy?" You can't help but to ask. </p><p>"I wouldn't kill you." Moriarty says, almost offendedly. His lip curls in revulsion - the mere thought of your absence from the world is disgusting, and the thought that he could cause it even more so. A game between you and him would be interesting, but even more entertaining still is you at his side. </p><p>"But if you did, would you?" </p><p>"Mmh, yes. I'd like to have something to remember you by." He says, giving into your hypothetical scenario. </p><p>"What would you take? The glass slipper you gave me?" You inquire, your touch gentle, barely even there, as you smooth thick, white salve into his wound. </p><p>"No. Don't be boring. That's predictable, Cinderella. I think you were on to something with heads." He pauses for a moment, considering you carefully. "Yes. I'd take your head, I think. You have such a pretty face, you know? I'd like to preserve it - especially when you look at me with fire in your eyes." </p><p>You nod, "Fair enough." </p><p>Moriarty looks at you with an arched eyebrow. "And if you killed me?" </p><p>"I wouldn't."</p><p>"But if you did?" He asks, staring you down with big, dark eyes that are like pools of oblivion. </p><p>It takes you just a second to answer. "I'd take your heart." </p><p>"Oh, really?" He grins, his voice dipping teasingly. "If you want my heart all you have to do is ask." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Yourself and Moriarty have come up with so many ideas. </p><p>Once upon a time, you used to be locked in your room and escorted downstairs every morning by one of his henchmen. Now, you have relative free reign of the place. The doors aren't locked, and you're trusted to go anywhere you want. It's like he just understands that you won't leave - though Jim does consider that he might be projecting. </p><p>Each morning, you'll trudge down to his study, and begin planning. Fooling somebody as brilliant and astute as Sherlock Holmes is guaranteed to be difficult. Faking a death isn't easy, and it's not exactly your area of expertise. It is, however, something that Moriarty has extensive experience in. He can simply erase somebody from existence if he wants to. </p><p>You've pondered all sorts of possibilities - staging a hanging or perhaps even something like cyanide poisoning. It doesn't take long for you to dismiss those ideas. You have a nagging feeling that Sherlock will want to see blood, and a lot of it. </p><p>For a while, the two of you also discuss the possibility of staging Moriarty's murder, but he scoffs at that idea. He didn't want anyone else to be given the credit for killing him. </p><p>It had taken a while, but you had formed a rough plan. You were just waiting for the last pieces of it to fall into place. </p><p>That particular morning, when you sauntered downstairs and into Moriarty's study, you find that he's not in there alone. Jim's lounging around at his desk, looking utterly bored, and staring up at a tall man with dirty blonde hair and crystalline blue eyes. </p><p>The man stands rigidly, his spine completely straight. His hands are folded behind his back, his unblemished, elegant fingers interlocked at the base of his spine. He stands like a soldier - like somebody desperate for orders. His stance is somewhat familiar to you. It's similar to the way Moriarty's henchmen defer to him, but this man is dressed differently, more casually, so you're disinclined to believe that he's one of the minions.</p><p>Upon hearing the creaking noise of the door opening, the man turns around. His head moves as fast as a whip, and you think that he must have heightened senses. The door hadn't been loud enough for most people to notice it. </p><p>Moriarty's face lights up as you enter his study, his dark eyes gleaming with delight. </p><p>"Cinderella," He croons, beckoning you in. "I have somebody that I'd like you to meet. This is Sebastian Moran, and he's here to help with killing me off." </p><p>You give Sebastian a smile. "It's nice to meet you, I'm Y/N L/N." You introduce yourself. </p><p>He acknowledges you with a slight bow of his head. </p><p>"Sebastian is one of my most skilled snipers." Jim supplies. "We've been talking about a fake shooting, and I think I have the way to do it." </p><p>"I thought you said you didn't want to look like you got murdered?" You ask, frowning. </p><p>Moriarty shakes his head, making a disgusted noise. He roots through one of the drawers in his desk, his hand emerging holding a small white box. He opens it carefully, and holds it out to you. Curiously, you peer into it. It contains what appears to be a row of little silver darts - thin, small, seemingly weightless. They sharpen to pin-points at their tips, resembling needles.</p><p>"These are the key to it, Cinderella." He says. "A few tiny needles and we can kill me off." </p><p>Sebastian speaks up. His voice isn't as gruff as you'd expected it to be. Rather, he's almost soft-spoken. He may stand like a soldier, and be a sniper, but he's almost shy - like his confidence has been limited by some harrowing experience. "And where am I shooting from?" </p><p>"I expect that Sherlock will summon you to that hospital." You say, to Moriarty, before turning to Sebastian. "We'll find a place not far from there. We can scout locations. I think, that ideally we'd get a place that's taller than the hospital, just so we have a good vantage point." </p><p>"That's a good start. We can adjust for any other conditions once we've chosen a place." Sebastian says softly. </p><p>You don't miss the almost fond look that Jim passes Sebastian. Moriarty doesn't really do friends. He's a criminal mastermind - he has associates, allies and enemies. But, you don't think he's ever looked at any of his henchmen the way he does Sebastian. In fact, he looks almost appreciative of him. </p><p>It takes you a moment to decipher what it is. You speculate that Jim has had to rely on him before. Sebastian is meant to be skilled, after all. Your point is that Moriarty doesn't look at Sebastian like he's a means to an end. They look almost like comrades, putting trust both in each other and in you, in order to execute this scheme. </p><p>"Do we have the files in here?" You ask Moriarty. </p><p>He nods, grinning as he hands you a file. It contains a list of all the buildings nearby the hospital, and a few by Baker Street, just in case. It compiles pictures of the buildings, their heights and their relative distances from the place you thought it would all go down. It also contains pages of in depth analysis about the usefulness of each location. </p><p>You flip through each one, eagerly consuming each scrap of information. Almost tenderly, you pick one from the bunch - a tall building that's not directly next to the hospital, but has a good vantage point. </p><p>You hand it over to Sebastian, letting him examine it. "Is that one good enough?" </p><p>He scrutinises it carefully, his blue eyes mapping out every single detail. You realise that he's primarily looking at the windows, where he would presumably be stationed. "That's fine. We should use the top floor." </p><p>"I'll have the building cleared then." Moriarty says, boredly. Then, an almost feral grin splits across his face - something's greatly amused him, and it puts you slightly on edge that you can't discern what. You narrow your eyes in suspicion, which only makes his smirk widen. </p><p>"Something funny?" You ask, frowning. </p><p>"Do you remember the night we met, Cinderella?" He asks, his voice low. He's almost purring at you, seductively - the lilting, melodic dip of his voice is almost sinful. </p><p>"I don't think I'm liable to forget it." You reply, holding back a snort. </p><p>It had been one of the most eventful nights of your life. The majority of your life had been spent in a routine of servitude that was only broken by blood and fire. The night you murdered your step-family was the most significant of your life, closely followed by the night you met Jim Moriarty. </p><p>He had been a startling enigma wrapped in shadows, toying with you. And now, the two of you were toying with the man who almost caught you. </p><p>"Oh good, I would hate to be a bore." He says, raising his eyebrows slightly. "We weren't alone that night, you know. Wish we were, but you've tried to run." </p><p>You frown, utterly confused. "What do you m-" You stop yourself mid-sentence, your mouth falling agape, and you whip around to face Sebastian. "You were the sniper that night." </p><p>"I was." He confirms. He's gentle, with the way he talks - his voice is almost like a caress, or a gentle breeze. Either way, it's something evocative of happier times, of lost, loving memories. And yet, he's not apologetic in the slightest. He's outwardly shy, quiet, introverted. Sweet, even. But he's not sorry for what he did, but he does look mildly uncomfortable that it was you. </p><p>It's a job for Sebastian - a job that has irrevocably bound him to Moriarty. You can relate to that, at the very least. You wonder if that'll happen to you, too. If you'll feel bad for the people you hurt, whilst simultaneously being unrepentant, all because you did it for him. </p><p>"You didn't shoot me." You say, almost numbly. </p><p>Sebastian shakes his head minutely, his fingers grasping the papers slightly tighter. He has beautiful hands, really. Long, slender, unblemished fingers. He's probably pulled the trigger countless times, ending lives faster than you could even blink. "He didn't want me to." </p><p>An understanding passes between the two of you, then. The both of you are seemingly a step above Moriarty's regular henchmen. He has a certain fondness for the two of you, a deeper trust that he permits very few people to have. If Moriarty had asked, then Sebastian would have pulled the trigger without hesitation. </p><p>You don't feel aghast by that in the slightest. Rather, you relate to it. Here, you've forged some sense of belonging, one that you're prepared to defend viciously, if you have to. If Jim asked, you would probably kill, too. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The two of you had been waiting. This was the final play of the game - both players were down to one move, and tensions were high. Moriarty himself didn't seem too worried, he was awfully nonchalant and passive, putting his trust in you. </p><p>As much as it felt nice to be trusted implicitly, to have somebody who was unafraid to depend on you, you were still nervous. Moriarty had entrusted you with the grave task of fooling the almighty Sherlock Holmes. You had to trick him - a man that came very, very close to finding you. You had to be better than Sherlock. </p><p>Moriarty acts mostly unbothered, if anything, he's slightly more stoic than usual, though sometimes you'll catch a glimpse of a far-away look in his eyes. He's anticipatory of Sherlock's fall, desperate to see it happen and to see you do as he asked - to see you conquer death. </p><p>Because Sherlock will fall. It's inevitable. Their fate had been intertwined from the beginning, and now your destiny was interlocked with both Sherlock and Moriarty. The hero and the villain, and you. For the first time in his life, Sherlock will put others before himself. He's already died in some of the ways that matter the most to him - his mind has been dually reduced to a prize sought after by Moriarty's mercenaries, and the work of a con artist in the media. </p><p>And what is Sherlock Holmes without his brilliant mind? </p><p>"He'll decide today." Moriarty says, glancing up at you. As usual, he's lounging around in his chair in his study, his feet propped up on his desk, just inches away from his phone. Today, he's not the tourist, the cab driver or Rich Bach. Today he is himself, dressed in a suit, exactly as you've become accustomed to seeing him. "He can be predictable like that, you know."</p><p>"I've never met him," You reply, moving to lean towards him, your palms pressed flat against his desk, feeling the smooth grain of the wood beneath them. </p><p>"You don't have to." Moriarty shrugs his shoulders slightly. "I knew him better than he knew himself before I'd ever met him, and so do you." </p><p>His phone lights up, buzzing quietly. The two of you freeze simultaneously. </p><p>'Come and play. Bart's hospital rooftop. SH.'</p><p>Just as you had predicted. </p><p>The time for the game to end is now, and you feel almost like you've been punched in the gut. This isn't like killing your step-family, this isn't like that at all. Their murders were based on years of hatred that they themselves had cultivated. Sherlock would die simply because of the threat he posed to your freedom, and for Moriarty's amusement. </p><p>Sherlock is a man made into an angel by the press. He holds himself in high regard, with his mind as fast as a whip, and as sharp as a blade. He is the most real, most palpable threat to you. Once upon a time, that position had belonged to Moriarty, but he was no longer afforded that privilege. </p><p>Sherlock Holmes has been so deified by not just the media, but your own mind too, that this feels like killing god. This is outsmarting and destroying the creator. </p><p>Moriarty's phone buzzes and lights up again just a second later. </p><p>'PS. Got something of yours that you might want back.' It reads.</p><p>"Welcome to the ball, Cinderella." Moriarty says, crooning. He sounds affectionate, bordering on playful as he smiles up at you. "Care to dance?"</p><p>You brush him off, sighing deeply. "It's time, then?" </p><p>"Well, the clock's ticking." Moriarty retorts, "So we better get going. St. Bartholomew's it is." </p><p>"The hospital." You hum slightly. "I knew he would choose there." </p><p>It's a place he's familiar with - and you know he would never choose Baker Street. Sherlock didn't particularly want Moriarty around John or Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, so he'd go somewhere else he felt in control. The hospital was where the two of them had met for the first time - and today would be their last meeting. </p><p>"Just as I said..." Moriarty trails off jovially. "Predictable."</p><p>You shrug slightly. "To us." </p><p>And it's true. The average person can't comprehend Sherlock, but you and Moriarty can. The three of you are not identical in a great number of ways, but ultimately you're all the same kind of beast. The desperate kind. Whether it be desperation for freedom, entertainment or a challenge, the desperation is still present nonetheless. Oh, how it festers.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. the glass slipper shatters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>St. Bartholomew's Hospital is a towering building. Its bricks are mostly white and smooth, occasionally disrupted by darker bricks that wrap around the first floor of the building, and accent the many windows. The hospital's name is inscribed on its side, the white walls weathered slightly due to the rain, stained from years upon years of water damage. </p><p>It's a historic building - which feels especially relevant considering the fact that today will be a historic day. The temporary fall of Moriarty, and the death of Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>You gaze up at the hospital through dark, tinted glass. The sleek, black car purrs as it stops directly outside the doors. The henchman who is acting as a chauffeur is probably parking illegally, but you're sure it's not the first crime he's performed on Moriarty's behalf, and it's probably one of the lesser ones. </p><p>Moriarty shifts next to you. He's been awfully changeable for the whole journey, his leg bouncing up and down rapidly. Occasionally, his dark eyes with dart to you, and he'll stare at you wordlessly, any emotion that dares enter his eyes is completely indecipherable. </p><p>"Are you ready?" You ask. </p><p>"Mmh, I'm always ready." Moriarty retorts, his lips curling upwards. "The final move - and then it would be all over." </p><p>"It's not the end, not for us." </p><p>Moriarty shakes his head. "You know, there was a time when I considered killing myself. The grand final move is my death, forcing Sherlock into his." </p><p>"But not anymore," You say hurriedly. Tentatively, you turn slightly, and rest your hand on his shoulder. The material of his jacket is, as to be expected, fine, soft and luxurious. But you're not interested whatsoever in the feeling of the material as you glide your palm over it. You're more interested in the shallow breath he takes in, and the way he looks at you in absolute awe. </p><p>It inspires some kind of pride in you - and prompts some painful pang in your stomach. Longing.</p><p>"No, not anymore." He says slowly. "Not when we have the whole world before us - ready for us to take it." </p><p>Your hand falls from his shoulder, and your lips part almost imperceptibly. You feel like all of the air has rushed from your lungs - you're utterly breathless, trapped in his gaze. "It's all I've ever wanted." </p><p>Moriarty's dark eyes dip down to your lips. He lifts his hand, letting his thumb skim your jaw, his fingers caressing you softly. His fingers are warm as they glide against your face, almost reverent in their feather-light strokes. He looks at you almost worshipfully, and you think, then, that perhaps Sherlock wasn't the only person that had been deified. </p><p>"I know." He says simply. "Clock's ticking, Cinderella." </p><p>"Time to go, then." You say, a pang of disappointment rushing through you as his hand leaves your face. The door is pulled open abruptly - it's then you realise that the chauffeur had vacated his seat to open your door. Quickly, you shuffle out, followed by Moriarty. </p><p>The two of you stand there on the street silently, both of you gazing up at the hospital looming  over you.  Swiftly, and with an almost frightening level of paranoia, your eyes sweep up over the front of the hospital, methodically flickering between windows, until your gaze lands upon the roof. </p><p>You had been half expecting to see Sherlock peering out through one of the windows, catching his first and final glimpse of you, or stood on the ledge of the roof, numb to all fear as he searches the street for Moriarty. Instead, you don't see him at all. </p><p>Taking in a deep breath, you turn to Moriarty. "Good luck." </p><p>It's the only thing you can think to say. There are no witty remarks waiting in the wings of your mind, there is merely the most solemn hope that everything goes to plan, and that he gets out of it okay. God, it has been so unbearably long since you last cared for somebody that it feels foreign. This level of concern had typically been reserved for yourself and your own survival. Now, you find yourself willing to sacrifice all of that for him. </p><p>Moriarty gives you a sideways glance. "I don't need it. I've got something better than luck. I have you, Cinderella."</p><p>"I hate that name." Your voice emerges as a fractured whimper. </p><p>"Oh come on, show me that fire." He practically hisses, his voice almost acidic. </p><p>And you do. It's always been there - dormant for years at a time, but ready to come back ferociously at the drop of a hat. It's a terrible, all-consuming fire that can reduce everything around you to ash, and it's one that Moriarty likes to stoke. Solely because he thinks you look pretty when you're staring into the flames. </p><p>It's like something in you has snapped - the immense care is still there, but almost all of your anxiety has been alleviated. "Let's kill Sherlock Holmes, then." </p><p>"That's what I like to hear." He grins. "It's so lovely when you look like you want to burn everybody around you."</p><p>"I'd settle for just one person right now." You retort. </p><p>"Mmh, divine." He sighs, looking intoxicated. No, more than that. He looks enraptured by this side of you - the way that you mirror him so perfectly. He straightens his back as he looks away from you, that enchanted expression dropping off his face, replaced quickly by a mask of stoicism, the bored psychopath that wants to die. He takes in a shallow breath, his chest rising slightly. He begins his journey into the labyrinth that is St. Bart's. </p><p>"I'll see you later, Cinderella." He calls out over his shoulder. </p><p>You find that later can't come quickly enough. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Death had been something that plagued you your entire life. Throughout your formative years, your mother had been so frail, heart wrenchingly fragile, and it seemed to you that she had been marked for death from the very beginning. </p><p>She was so terribly ill that there had never been any other fate for her. Her story ended far too soon, leaving you feeling lost, completely adrift in a sea of grief, with only the fairytale she would read to you every night to make you feel like you were keeping your head above water. There's something very confusing about such a deep loss at a young age. </p><p>You would keep wondering if there would be a miracle. If her skin, blanched by death as she lay in her casket, would suddenly regain its vividness. If the formaldehyde in her veins, used to embalm her, would turn to blood. It didn't. It never did. Instead, she lay cold and unmoving, just as she was always meant to. </p><p>Much too quickly after her went your father. There was a tiny, bitter pang of resentment that you felt towards him. He had married Verona, after all. He had readily, with a smile on his face, welcomed the devil into his own home, and even put a ring on her finger. </p><p>And yet, losing him hurt more. Perhaps it was because of the perpetually unresolved resentment - there would never be closure, not with him. Or, maybe, it was because he was so perfectly healthy. He had been the complete antithesis of your mother. He rarely ever got sick, he was never frail, he never looked delicate. </p><p>He was strong, unbending, and happy. And then, all of a sudden, he was gone. So horrifically mangled, his skin torn to ribbons and his bones protruding awkwardly from his body, fractured and destroyed, blood rushing from every orifice, that you couldn't have an open casket funeral for him. </p><p>Then, death became freedom. It was absolutely cathartic to kill them - Verona, Aubrey and Alora. Suddenly, they were gone, wiped off the face of the earth and burnt beyond recognition by your own hands. </p><p>And now, death would continue to be freedom. </p><p>But it wasn't your death. Not now and not ever. Today, Moriarty would appear to die - you think that this is a stunt that the two of you had always been destined for. Once, when he had come to ask this of you, he told you to make death the next thing you conquer. And you would. </p><p>Jim Moriarty was a man accustomed to turning those around him into puppets. He would tug their strings and they would dance exactly as he wanted them to. He is a man in control at all times - building a ruthless criminal empire to put himself at the top of the hierarchy. </p><p>But today, you would be the puppeteer. All of his moves would be orchestrated by you, and you alone. Every word that slipped from his mouth would do so because you had been the one to put them there. </p><p>The final move of the game would, in part, belong to you. </p><p>You don't enter St. Bart's hospital. That's not where you need to be right now. Instead, you stare up at the building for just another moment. Your eyes roam over it appreciatively, cataloguing every crack in ever brick, every window. You've been over this a thousand times before. You know the building inside and out, down to the composition of the bricks that comprise it. </p><p>And yet, looking at it now, this feels like a monumental moment. You spin on your heel, and walk away. No, St. Bart's hospital isn't where you need to be. What you need is a better vantage point, and to make contact with the agent that will be there and waiting for you. </p><p>Not too far from the hospital is another high rise building. You had meticulously poured over this plan, again and again, and this was the place you favoured. </p><p>It was perfectly average. It didn't stick out at all. Modest, lacking in grandiosity, but not run down or looking like it should be demolished. It's not a blight on the street, it looks perfectly in place. </p><p>It's not something that Moriarty would choose. It lacks showmanship. There's absolutely nothing entertaining or unique about it, and he had unceremoniously scoffed at your choice, but allowed you to have it anyway. </p><p>It doesn't take you long to reach the building. It's made of a similar type of bricks to St. Bart's, smooth, white and damaged by England's poor weather, streaked with water damage. It's also not directly next door, and you've calculated that from Sherlock's position it would be difficult to see you, if not impossible. </p><p>The entire building has been secured. Today, most of the henchmen are in disguise. They, too, need to look average. It's easy for them to disguise themselves - a quick outfit change and they can become anybody they want to. </p><p>The door isn't locked, and you pull it open easily, but you do suspect that if a regular person were to try, then something very, very bad would happen to them. </p><p>There's a few plainclothes henchmen milling around, their eyes darting to you for just a second before they look away, deferring to you in Moriarty's absence. </p><p>The internal structure is just as average as the external. It's decorated plainly, primarily in whites and creams, purposefully lacking in personality. It's nice, of course, but it's not exceptional. All furniture is basic, plain white and mildly uncomfortable-looking. There's a few tiny cracks in the ceilings, where pieces of plaster have fallen, scuffs along the skirting boards, some dust settled along the surfaces and the wooden floor is marred with stains. It's not immaculate, and it's nothing at all like the mansion you share with Moriarty. </p><p>You don't pause to stare at the decor, though. There's no time for such a thing, and the interior design is so bland that it doesn't evoke a second glance. Instead, you continue forward. Rather easily, you disregard the glances from the henchmen, and proceed to walk passed them. </p><p>The groups of quiet, grisled, criminal men part for you. They break away from one another silently, allowing you passage through the throng of people. Their various disguises are almost disconcerting. They should be, really. It's another thing you're not used to - seeing them look like regular people with fully fleshed out lives rather than just the henchmen. </p><p>But you're not made uneasy by it. You'd planned it - everything was going precisely the way that you had intended. Your head is held high as you glide away from them all, and begin your ascent up the many, many stairs. </p><p>One of the benefits of this building in particular is its height. It offers a beautiful sight of both the skyline of London, and a vantage point from which you can view the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's hospital. Unfortunately, the great height of the building also means a great amount of stairs for you to clamber up. </p><p>By the time you reach the top of the stairs, your legs are burning slightly, but you're not out of breath. You don't resent the pain, rather, it spurs you on. </p><p>The top floor isn't decorated at all. It's been completely stripped bare, and it almost resembles a parking garage. All of the windows are open, fragmented light spilling through them, and a cold breeze whips around you, chilling your skin. </p><p>Still, you don't let it affect you. </p><p>There's only one other person up here. The two of you give each other a scrutinising look, sizing each other up, evaluating the threat. He stands almost rigidly, a white shirt stretched over his torso, and a dark sniper rifle clutched in his hands. His pale fingers twitch against the metal, which shines in the sunlight, but you don't flinch. </p><p>He's not threatening you - that's not what you're here for. He gestures for you to come forward, and you look up at him, completely unperturbed.  </p><p>This man is different from the other henchmen. He's not as quick to defer, and you know that he's more trusted than any of them will ever be. In some ways, he's more hardened, much more aware of the chaotic beast that lives within Moriarty, and in others, he's softer, more human.</p><p>"Sebastian." You say, by way of greeting. Your voice isn't cold - he's not an enemy, but you're not overtly friendly, either. Now isn't the time for pleasantries. </p><p>He nods his head, sunlight spilling over his dirty blonde tousled hair. </p><p>You stalk over to a window, one which faces the roof of St. Bart's. Sebastian trails after you, carefully maneuvering the heavy weapon in his hands, adjusting it in his grip. </p><p>"Here will do." You say, watching intently as he sets the gun down and begins to settle it on the ledge of the window. </p><p>He gets down to the floor, almost lying down, one eye trained through the scope, and the other closed tightly. He quickly lowers himself into an adequate position. He's well trained, of course he is. You wonder if he'd worn the same calm expression that night he'd been looking at you through the scope. </p><p>You're aware it had been him - Sebastian Moran - that had been the sniper the day you'd met Moriarty. In a way, it was Sebastian that truly encouraged you to join Moriarty. He had been the one directing a tiny red laser to your heart, after all. The crimson dot had once sat on your chest, and Sebastian's finger had probably been resting on the trigger, ready to shoot at a moment's notice. </p><p>Upon receiving a signal from Moriarty, Sebastian would have killed you. You're not bitter towards him, which you really think you should be - he had come close to killing you. But, he was the very reason you were free. And now, his weaponry would secure that freedom again. </p><p>This gun doesn't contain bullets. You're not looking to shoot anyone, least of all Moriarty. Sebastian's sleek, black weapon that resembles his beloved sniper rifle, contains tiny darts. The kind that have a sharp needle on the end, ready to burst a bag of blood. The type that are laced with a temporary paralytic drug that can make a person appear to be dead. </p><p>All of this is your design. Each and every aspect was selected by you. </p><p>The wind, still blowing through the multitude of open windows, is ice cold, and yet the sun is warm on your skin. Through the glass, you can see the scene unfold. The St. Bart's rooftop is now occupied by both players. </p><p>Moriarty is sat on the edge of the roof, basking in the sun, though his face is solemn and his hands are clasped between his spread legs. Sherlock stalks towards him, rigid and deliberate. Sherlock circles around the roof, his hands clasped behind his back - his face is a visage of confusion, but his body language is predatory. </p><p>The two seem to exchange a series of quips - you can already predict what they'll be. You know them both well enough to know how they'd want to act in their 'final' hours. </p><p>And then, Moriarty stands up, and Sherlock freezes, his body seizing up. Moriarty languidly walks around him, mirroring Sherlock's earlier gait, leaning in to whisper to him antagonising. This has played out in your mind a thousand times before, but it's different watching it unfurl before you. This is your plan coming to fruition - this is a microcosm of happily ever after. </p><p>They'll discuss the code - and then, Moriarty will tell him it doesn't exist. That it never has, that it was a disgustingly easy trap for Sherlock to fall into. </p><p>And Sherlock looks barely phased. His ice blue eyes are calculating, constantly analysing, determining what this will mean for him. He's not one to display emotion, but you can make a guess as to how he's feeling, anyway. The two of you have never met. You've never even spoken a word to Sherlock Holmes, and yet you're capable of understanding one another perfectly. </p><p>The two of them peer over the edge of the building, Sherlock and Moriarty both gazing down at the street. There's a few people darting around, strolling their way through London, and a taxi whizzes passed. </p><p>"...I love newspapers, fairytales. And pretty grim ones, too." Moriarty says to Sherlock, and you whisper it under your breath in unison with him. </p><p>The two of you hadn't been able to resist it - antagonising Sherlock with the knowledge that Moriarty got you first. Sherlock had been the one to start the hunt, but Moriarty had ended it, culminating with you at his side. </p><p>They exchange a few more jabs, and then Sherlock lunges towards Moriarty. He's like a desperate animal in that moment, surging forwards and fisting his hands in the smooth material of Moriarty's jacket, gripping him domineeringly and pushing him towards the ledge. </p><p>Moriarty looks mostly unbothered by it, from what you can tell, but his hands flail slightly, wavering against the wind and you hope that he's being mocking. You had known this could be a possibility, that desperation may drive Sherlock to this, and your heart leaps to your throat. You can feel it pounding against your ribcage, and the rush of blood that follows. </p><p>Involuntarily, your hand curls into a fist at your side, and the biting pain of your nails digging into your palms is the only thing keeping you grounded. It's impossible for you to drag your eyes from the two of them, to glance away from it all. </p><p>Moriarty's hands are raised in surrender, but he's smiling tauntingly. Here come the threats - to the lives of Doctor John Watson, Sherlock's flatmate, Mrs Hudson, his landlady, and Lestrade, a police officer that he frequently collaborates with. Lestrade's name was familiar to you - he had been one of the investigators on the case of the Archer family murders. Evidently, he hadn't managed to catch their killer. </p><p>And then, Sherlock relinquishes him. Moriarty is out of danger - he's able to stand on his own two feet, and he's, thankfully, not so close to the ledge anymore. </p><p>A few more barbed, acidic, taunting comments are passed between the two of them, and Sherlock steps up to the ledge. His face is set, utterly solemn, as he stares down at the street. There's more people now - more cars, and more bystanders, who gaze upwards, curious about the man on the roof. </p><p>Moriarty turns away from Sherlock, glancing up at the building, at your building, and grinning. Oh, he looks so happy. So incredibly pleased with you, almost smitten.</p><p>For a second, you think Sherlock will jump too soon, but then he turns around and leaps down from the ledge, grinning wildly. Moriarty has to rush to drop the giddy smile from his face, plastering on an expression of confusion. Your chest feels almost pained, and you're not entirely sure you remember how to breathe. This is it - the final move is mere seconds away. </p><p>The two stalk towards each other, and Sherlock begins to circle Moriarty again, like a shark smelling blood in the water. He's hungry. This is his chance for escape. Just as you had predicted. </p><p>Every fine detail that you had planned out meticulously was just a testament to how well you knew them both. </p><p>They're so close, staring one another down, Sherlock towering over Moriarty. They're both so dark in that moment - so raw, so untamed. It makes you feel like you've been set aflame, like there's fire burning your skin off, and you delight in it. </p><p>The sun filters between the two of them, almost haloing their heads, and you have to squint to see properly. It's almost ironic, how divine they look, surrounded by pure white light. You know fully well that neither of them are the type to see heaven - that's a fact you're able to readily accept. Once, Moriarty had told you that you liked hellfire, and you thought that to be true. </p><p>Moriarty extends his hand, grinning maniacally. Sherlock takes it - you always knew he would. This was both destiny and your plan. </p><p>"Ready?" You ask Sebastian. </p><p>"Ready." He confirms. </p><p>You know this shot will be difficult for him - he can't have a laser this time. Sherlock would notice that. You need this to be quick, and for it to look self-inflicted. That best serves your purposes. </p><p>The final move is played. </p><p>Moriarty reaches into his coat, his hand emerging clinging to a silver gun that glints evilly under the sun. Quickly, too quickly to be stopped, he opens his mouth, pushing the barrel of the gun inside, letting it rest heavily on the roof of his mouth, his tongue caressing it. </p><p>"Now." You command. </p><p>BANG! </p><p>Simultaneously, you can hear the gunshot ring out, like a thunderous cracking noise, and the barely audible noise of Sebastian pulling the trigger at the same time.</p><p>Moriarty careens backwards, his arms flying outwards. His body drops to the ground, and you feel the dull thud of his body landing against the concrete in your very soul. He lays completely limp, his mouth still agape and his dark eyes wide open, but unseeing. </p><p>He looks dead - completely dead. You let out a ragged gasp at the sight. Moriarty's laying lifelessly on the roof, his limbs sporadically strewn about, the gun having fallen from his grip, clattering against the floor next to him. </p><p>Blood, crimson and thick, begins to pour from what appears to be his skull, forming a pool of crimson around the top half of his body. The concrete is stained red, blood pouring into every crack and crevice. There's so much of it - like a terrible, terrible lake. </p><p>The pool of blood rapidly expands, forming a bloody halo around his head. It's the closest he'll ever get to being an angel, but looking at him like this doesn't feel holy at all. This is hell - sulfur and sin and suffering. This feels like the wrath of the old testament - of drowning and scorching the earth so that it might begin anew. </p><p>If this were not all completely staged, there would be no forgiveness within you. You would single handedly rain down destruction on every person in your path, irrespective of their goodness. Without Moriarty, it wouldn't be happily ever after. It would be a slaughter of the most brutal kind. </p><p>Still, looking at it does fill you with a blistering rage. You have to tell yourself over and over again that this isn't real - that he's not really gone. </p><p>Sherlock stares, chest heaving, mouth open, at Moriarty's prone corpse. He watches with wide eyes as the blood runs over the roof, and he stumbles backwards. He looks absolutely desperate - completely destroyed, sinking his hands into his hair and tugging on his dark curls like his life depends on it. </p><p>He staggers around, looking lost, forlorn, and very much like he had been forced into a corner. Sherlock pants softly, his ice blue eyes constantly scanning every tiny thing around him. He's looking for a way out, for any solution. </p><p>Moriarty's still unmoving, and it's somewhat of a struggle for Sherlock to tear his eyes from his enemy. Sherlock stares up at the sun, and trudges slowly towards the ledge of the roof. He looks like a man defeated. His coat and scarf ripple against the harsh wind, and he sways slightly. </p><p>Sherlock's clutching a phone to his ear. He's talking to someone as he stares down at the street. He's looking for John, that much you know. And he's trying to give John closure and keep him alive - admitting, no, lying through his teeth that Moriarty was never real and that all the great Sherlock Holmes had ever been was a fraud. </p><p>His voice is probably breaking, cracking uncontrollably. Sherlock Holmes is a stunted, emotionally distant man. He favours logic and rationale to feeling. Physical sensation and emotions are not something he trusts. But, in his last moments, he would still be affected. </p><p>This was your plan. You had reduced him to this - to the trembling man on the ledge with the breaking voice, lying to protect people he swore he couldn't stand. </p><p>He outstretches a hand, one final gesture of affection to a friend who would watch his death. He tosses the phone behind him, looking resolute. He looks accepting of it, even as he trembles and the wind tousled his hair. </p><p>Sherlock pushes his arms out, almost mimicking the wingspan of a bird. But he won't fly. You know he won't. </p><p>And then, the great Sherlock Holmes falls. </p><p>It's utterly enrapturing, watching him plummet out of your sight in a maelstrom of navy blue. The only emotion you can feel is relief, and all of a sudden, a peal of laughter bubbles up from within your chest, escaping from your mouth in fragments. </p><p>Sebastian, who is carefully putting the gun away and getting to his feet, looks at you with furrowed brows. He looks concerned, more than anything else. </p><p>You wave him off easily, dismissive of his worry. This is catharsis. This is freedom - it's almost all that you've ever wanted. It's so close to happily ever after. </p><p>But there's something missing. This joy feels incomplete. "Thank you, Sebastian." You say, smiling up at him. "Really, thank you. You made it all possible." </p><p>Sebastian simply nods at you, his fingers drumming against the metal of the gun. He's the silent type, you know that. He's a rather shy, almost sweet man, a complete contrast to his profession, and to the fact he almost killed you. </p><p>You're not mad. You're not even slightly irritated. Rather, you're completely understanding. This is what it is to kill for Moriarty. This jovial, addicting feeling that rushes through your veins and threatens to make you choke. </p><p>"I'm going to get Moriarty now." You say, grinning wildly. You spin on your heel, abandoning Sebastian on the top floor, and rush down the stairs. </p><p>There's so many flights, and you're dashing down them, half-crazed and desperate. Your chest is burning, heaving and aching by the time you get to the bottom - you're out of breath and air is escaping your mouth and nose in strangled puffs. Still, you keep going. You sprint through the bottom floor. </p><p>The henchmen part for you like the sea had for Moses. Nature and humanity itself will do anything for divinity - this is what it means to become god in every sense of the word. You control each miniscule movement of each and every person, who lives to see another day, who dies free from suffering, and who dies begging for their lives to be ended, and everybody is afraid of you. </p><p>You run out of the building, and down the street. You maneuver your way passed the crowd that is gathering around Sherlock's body. He's not what you want to see, and you barely spare a glance in the direction of his body, splayed out on the pavement. But, you do catch a glimpse of his blood, crimson and staining the streets, and you smile so hard that your cheeks hurt. </p><p>From the street, you make your way into St. Bart's Hospital. It smells sterile and faintly of blood, as is very common in hospital. You barely even wrinkle your nose at the odor - the chemicals don't bother you so much when there is something far more important on your mind. </p><p>There's a few concerned, paranoid glances from medical professionals sent in your direction, but you easily ignore them and rush upwards, through a series of labyrinth-like staircases and corridors until you reach the roof. </p><p>The cold wind whips your hair around your face, and you struggle to keep it out of your eyes. Your whole body is trembling - the sun shines down on you, hot and fiery, at war with the violent breeze. </p><p>You stumble forwards, desperate and wide-eyed, almost mimicking Sherlock's earlier actions. There's a pool of blood, splashing over the concrete, and in the very centre of it lays Moriarty's limp body. His limbs are spread out, his mouth open, his dark eyes wide, and the silver gun by his side. </p><p>You rush to him, kneeling at his side. Immediately, you feel the blood seep through your clothes, possibly staining your knees crimson, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's so close. </p><p>Straining, you move your arm under his back and lift him up slightly, pulling Moriarty towards you and almost into your lap. His body is warm, and you scramble to get your hand down the back of his shirt, your fingertips roaming over the back of his neck before venturing lower. </p><p>Your hand brushes against his back, feeling his warm, bare skin beneath your hands. You take in a deep breath as your fingertips brush up against lightweight metal - the dart that Sebastian had fired. </p><p>Instantly, your hand wraps around it, and you carefully tug it from his skin, wincing as you feel slight resistance. You let out a few tiny groans as you pull it from his back, carefully removing the dart and cradling it in your hands. </p><p>It shouldn't take long for him to wake up. The paralytic would slow his heart rate, but the low dosage would mean it wouldn't last long. You're content to just cradle his prone body in your arms, cupping the back of his head and holding him to your chest, your hands desperately, fervently, clutching to him. This had all been by design. This was very much your plan. You only feel it's truly complete when he begins to stir in your arms, his face twitching slightly. </p><p>"Cinderella..." He croaks out, confusedly, evidently affected by the drugs. Moriarty reaches a hand up to your face, his fingers brushing over your cheeks reverently. </p><p>His annoying little nickname for you is the first thing out of his mouth. Of course it is. His vision is slightly impaired, and he's struggling to move. Jim can see you moving above him, but you're more of a blur than anything else, a vague collage of features that don't mesh together the way they should because he just can't see. </p><p>And yet, he doesn't need to. He could identify you anywhere - you're his. His in every sense of the word. Sherlock is dead. The only other man that could ever seek to comprehend you has been killed by your beautiful, beautiful hands.</p><p>A smile breaks out across his face - the two of you are sat in a pool of his blood, the icy wind carrying the scent of rust, and you've never felt more free.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. and they lived happily ever after...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The death of Sherlock Holmes is the beginning of your happily ever after. It had always been planned that way. You have to practically peel Jim off the rooftop, so that his henchmen can come in and put a body there - one that looks identical to him, and you try very hard not to look at. </p><p>The whole time, you can't seem to quite take your hands off him. You had planned everything down to the tiniest detail, and yet, you had been so fearful. You were almost too good, really. He had looked dead, his eyes wide, glassy and unseeing as blood haloed his head. </p><p>He's more than willing to cling to you, too. His hands roam over your waist, your shoulders and your neck, like he, too, needs to desperately remind himself you're still here, by his side. And he does. Moriarty was a master manipulator, he always had been. He could break people down and reduce them to rubble exceptionally easily. And yet, he never quite knew what you wanted. Freedom was a vague concept, but one that he was charmed by. </p><p>This had been the culmination of a lifetime's worth of work, for him. Sherlock Holmes had been after him since his very first murder, and now he had just wiped Holmes off the map. Or, rather, you had done it for him. </p><p>He ushers you into the car - sleek and black and fast, one driven by the same chauffeur as earlier - and just keeps pressing his hands to your skin. He's desperate to feel you, just to remind himself you're real. </p><p>"You know, Cinderella, there aren't many things I'm afraid of." Moriarty says, cupping your jaw with his hand. </p><p>You just respond with a raised eyebrow, silently probing him, as you lean into his touch. All you want is to erase that image of him lying in a pool of his blood from your mind, but it seems to be emblazoned onto the back of your eyelids, plaguing you every time that you dare to close your eyes. It's the stuff of nightmares, of eternal torment. </p><p>"Mycroft Holmes and all of his little minions couldn't break me," He breathes out, gazing down at you. His dark eyes burn hot. "But I think that losing you might. If you decide that your freedom, your happy ever after, isn't with me, I will burn the whole fucking world down until you have nowhere to turn but my arms." </p><p>"You're all the freedom I need." You breathe out. You're practically caged between the car door, the leather seats, and Moriarty's body, his hand smoothing over your face. </p><p>His dark eyes are fixed on you, and your heart rate increases exponentially as he glances down at your lips. There's almost a bolt of electricity between you, a moment of absolute understanding. That you need to be closer. You fist your hands in his jacket, pulling him to you until he's half leaning over you, entrapping you with his arm, and your noses are almost touching. </p><p>You can't be sure who leans in first - who's the one to initiate it. But all of a sudden, the two of you collide, and his lips are on yours. </p><p>The two of you are half-feral, strung high on your victory. All you need is to be closer, to feel more of him. Jim kisses you hard, his hand clutching the side of your face. In turn, you pull against him, crushing his chest to yours. </p><p>You need this - you've needed this so badly for so long. You need the feeling of his lips against yours, the domineering caress of his tongue and the feeling of him pulled against you. He has you whimpering, feeling ready to combust. </p><p>There is an innate sense of belonging when the two of you are together. These feral, fervent kisses are a long time coming. This is devotion in every sense of the word - a culmination of every ounce of trust you have put in one another. </p><p>You didn't think you'd ever known true freedom until now. The two of you have to break away, panting, chests heaving in unison and jointly desperate for air. Jim's hand is still resting on your jaw, his fingers pressing so hard to your skin they may bruise. You don't think you would mind if they did, leaving dark imprints of his fingertips on your face. </p><p>Most of his life, Moriarty had been desperate for something. It took him years to define what it was - he was looking for entertainment. Everybody around him moved in boring, muted shades of grey. Even Sherlock was limited - perhaps rising up to a pale blue. He had some colour, but ultimately lacked vibrancy. He was limited by the scraps of humanity he clung to.</p><p>And then you came along - a burning, vengeful red. You were the colour of fire, of power, of passion. Yes, you certainly were an arsonist with the way you set his soul aflame. He hadn't even known he had one until you began to burn it. </p><p>Jim grins down at you, utterly delighted. That red is back in full force, your cheeks flushed and your lips swollen, shiny with saliva. "Oh, Cinderella." </p><p>"Jim." You whisper, your voice hoarse, strangled, almost. You feel more overwhelmed than you ever have before. This is what it means to win, to be triumphant. </p><p>"The game's over." He says, wide-eyed, like he's a little amazed by the fact it ever got to this point. And he is. This cat and mouse game with Sherlock has been played so many times, has been composed of so many hundreds of different, devious moves. And now it's over. The game has finished - and he has won. </p><p>This isn't a half-victory, claimed by Moriarty's own suicide. This is real, palpable, and more meaningful than his own death could ever be. Because Sherlock was gone - he had plummeted from the roof and gone splat upon the pavement. That alone is monumental, really. This game between them had gone on long enough.</p><p>"It is." You reply, still clutching to him, even as the car slows to a halt. You hear the screeching of the tires, but you're far more enraptured by the way you can hear him breathing quietly, and the pounding of your own heart in response. </p><p>Moriarty grins, his lips curling upwards. "Oh we won, Cinderella."</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is dead. His brilliant mind is probably scattered across the pavement in chunks of bloody brain matter. He had been so smart, so hyperlogical, and he had fallen anyway. The Reichenbach Hero had been reduced to little more than a tarnished fraud, and a cold corpse. It was most certainly a beautiful ending.</p><p>"We did," You agree quickly. "We won, and now..." </p><p>"Now we get your happily ever after." He says gleefully. "Where first? Do we just pick a country? Find ourselves another Sherlock-type to play with?" </p><p>"I think that Germany would be a nice place to start." You say breathily, as he drags his fingers over your cheeks, enthralled by the way your breath hitches whenever he touches you. </p><p>He passes you a curious look, though his smile never falters. "Germany?" </p><p>"It's where the brothers Grimm started compiling their stories. I've enjoyed making this version of Cinderella, so why not tell more stories?" </p><p>"The version where the wicked step-mother and ugly step-sisters are brutally murdered, the house burns down, and Prince Charming is just as evil as Cinderella." Moriarty says, reverently. </p><p>You happily lean into his touch, nuzzling your face against his fingers affectionately. "The version where happily ever after means that the streets run red with blood." </p><p>"Germany it is then, Cinderella. I wouldn't keep you from anything you wanted." He says, and you know it to be true. </p><p>He couldn't, even if he tried. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fleeing the country is exceptionally easy when you have access to the kinds of resources that Jim does. The two of you are content to leave England, and abandon everything there. Moriarty's extensive criminal network are always at his beck and call, of course, but this is a journey that the two of you embark on without any henchmen. They're well trained and obedient enough to be able to survive without him for some time. </p><p>So, you head for Germany - the first destination for your happy ever after. </p><p>You had read a great many versions of the stories they had compiled. Your main obsession as a child, was of course, Cinderella. And even now, you had formed a soft spot for the tale of Hansel and Gretel as a result of the kidnapping you had helped Moriarty to execute. </p><p>It's an absolutely charming country - the weather is lovely. The sun's rays are perpetually kissing your skin, dancing over your neck and shoulders. </p><p>The two of you take up a house here, too. It's huge, another towering mansion, historic-looking, with intricate brickwork and impressive architecture. The grounds are spacious, too. The grass is a lucious, vibrant green, there's flowers of all varieties in bloom everywhere, and there's ivy that clings to the exterior walls of the house. There's even a grand fountain in the centre of the garden, spewing streams of clear water. </p><p>You do feel the absence of Moriarty's henchmen more than you thought you would. It's just you and him, for now and the considerable future. There are no other criminals milling around the house or deferring to the two of you. </p><p>Moriarty doesn't talk about Sebastian Moran very much. You had once asked Jim if he'd want Sebastian there with you, but he'd just shook his head, saying that he'd given his favourite sniper some measure of freedom, too. There was some softness between the two of them - an unspoken, unacknowledged friendship that had been forged by more than just the bindings of money and crime. </p><p>The two of you, yourself and Jim, remain somewhat separate from each other. There's some kind of intimacy between you two, in the little touches and occasional fleeting kisses, but it often feels as if the two of you are dancing around each other rather than risk confronting your deepest desires. </p><p>The mansion was practically flooded with paperwork - pictures, files and stacks of information. Some of those images, articles and the like were stuck to the walls, interconnected by pieces of red string. It was time to construct a new plan. </p><p>"Mmh, I don't know." Moriarty squints at the mass of information that has been thumbtacked to the wall, scrutinising it with his big, dark eyes. He plucks some pieces from the wall, scoffing at the papers before throwing throwing them over his shoulder, discarding them. </p><p>"What aren't you sure about?" You ask, watching Jim practically prance around the room. This room was the one that the two of you had reserved for planning. The walls were completely plastered with all pertinent information - pictures of possible players, locations, storylines, and the heinous things that the two of you could accomplish. </p><p>He shrugs. Despite it being just the two of you out here, he still dresses impeccably. "Cinderella, Cinderella." He croons, his voice delightful, soft and intimate before it drops an octave and he descends into an almost desperate groan. "The three little pigs just feels a little...rudimentary?" He laments.</p><p>You sigh softly, coming up behind him and throwing your arms around his chest, burrowing your head into the space between his shoulder blades. "I just thought it would be nice, you know, to blow the houses up? Find some brothers and terrorise them?" </p><p>Jim's spine straightens immediately. "Well, I do love to blow things up, I suppose. But still, I - how about little red riding hood?  That could be fun. We could kill an old lady and make it look like an animal attack, maybe have a granddaughter find her? Nothing too bad for the little girl, since I know you're against hurting children."</p><p>"Most people are." You giggle, pressing your nose into the fine material of his jacket. "We could go for sleeping beauty - woman in a coma?" </p><p>He grumbles. "No, I prefer the three little pigs to that. At least you get explosions then. Bombing did work magnificently last time - made the Holmes brothers turn their eyes to me." </p><p>"This time it could attract somebody even better." You suggest, "Though it won't be the same. He was nice to play with, wasn't he? Sherlock, that is. Sometimes I regret that I never even had a conversation with him." </p><p>Jim scoffs, his hands plucking yours from around his torso, so that he can turn around and look down at you. "You didn't have to - you know him well enough already." </p><p>"I suppose I do." You agree, interlocking your hands with his, resting the tips of your fingers on the backs of his hands and revelling in the comfort you receive from his skin against yours. Sherlock's mind wasn't a mystery to you, and in some ways he was familiar, too. </p><p>"We could always go back and torment Mycroft," He suggests jovially in a chirpy voice. </p><p>Immediately, you shake your head, scowling. Even hearing the name of the elder Holmes' boy made you livid. He was a man you detested with a passion. Yes, he may have been the very reason that you and Moriarty had so much information about Sherlock, and you were able to use Mycroft's retelling of Sherlock's life story to convince Kitty Riley that Sherlock was a fraud, but you hated him with a passion. </p><p>The burning, volatile hatred you felt for him wasn't entirely dissimilar to your feelings surrounding your step-family. The Archers had hurt you, and they had died for it. Mycroft had hurt something much more important. He had laid his hands on something that was yours in every sense of the word. </p><p>"No, no we couldn't. We're not messing with the British government. He tortured you." You hiss, glaring up at him. "He wouldn't survive in one of our games, anyway. I'd kill him the moment I saw him." </p><p>"Sweet of you, Cinderella, really, it is." Jim grins, absolutely unphased. In fact, there's even a note of amusement in his tone. "But Mycroft couldn't break me if he tried. I didn't feel a thing." </p><p>"How would you feel if somebody put their hands on me like that?" </p><p>Jim's expression darkens. His eyebrows pull together, and the grin on his face falters temporarily before it is twisted into a sneer. His dark, obsidian eyes are murderous. He's utterly enraged just thinking about it. If anything - fucking anything - were to happen to you, then there wouldn't be a soul left on earth who hadn't suffered. </p><p>He would demand revenge. His mind immediately flitters to all of the consequences he'd hand out - of how he would make every last person who had ever hurt you spend their last days begging for death. The mere thought of you in pain has him clenching his jaw, and boils the blood running through his veins. </p><p>You're his. His. His. You belong to him in every fucking sense of the word. </p><p>His grip on your hands tightens, and becomes bruising. He crushes your fragile fingers between his, and you can feel the bones grinding against each other uncomfortably. "I would kill anybody that even thought about it. I would flay them alive, slaughter their entire family in front of them, pluck their eyeballs from their skulls and pull their teeth. The whole world would know my wrath." </p><p>"That's how I feel about you." You say, firmly. You do your best to be reaffirming, looking him directly in your eyes. It's impossible for you to maintain the scowl on your face. Even though your hands hurt from his grip, you don't really feel the pain. Rather, you feel the devotion behind his actions. "If I had the opportunity, I would have killed both of the Holmes brothers, and I wouldn't have gifted Mycroft the chance to choose his own death. It would be at my hand, never his own."</p><p>Moriarty seems to falter then - he genuinely looks confused, but only for a split-second. This is it. This is the confirmation that your feelings were as deep as his, that this devotion is more than reciprocated. He had never been loved like this before. For so long, he had thought that those types of emotions were boring, ordinary, and a weakness. </p><p>But he doesn't feel weak, not when he looks down at you. Rather, he feels victorious that you were ever there at all - that you had chosen him to be your happy ever after. </p><p>"I understand, Cinderella." He says, lowering his head. </p><p>For a moment, you had thought he might lower his lips to yours and kiss you, and your breath hitched as his face neared yours. He doesn't, though. Rather, he places a chaste kiss on your forehead. You sigh happily, smiling contently. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Finding the perfect people was a difficult task. There were several factors that needed to be taken into account - the who, the when and the where. In addition to that, you also needed to consider whether or not you intended for the three little pigs to survive the game. Did you want them to be the next players? To have three brothers step up and oppose you? Or did you want their deaths to attract the next Sherlock? </p><p>There were just so many variables that you had to account for. And it was taking a bit of a toll on you. </p><p>You had spent the entire morning inside of the planning room, surrounded by dossiers you had compiled on potential victims. You preferred them to be bad people - to kill for righteous reasons. Vengeance had always been a good look on you.</p><p>So far, you had meticulously composed multiple variations of the plan. Each version had been formulated carefully, calculatingly. It had to be practical enough for you to get away with it, and indulgent in Jim's fantasies to maintain his amusement. It was a very difficult balance to make. </p><p>The floor was littered with papers. They had been stacked and organised multiple times - chronologically, alphabetically, and ranked based on their entertainment value. Who would have thought that huffing and puffing and blowing the house down could be so hard? </p><p>In addition to the victims and the way your macabre fairytale was going to unfurl, you also had to consider the bombings themselves. Which bombs would be the most effective? Do you choose to make it overtly obvious that it was a deliberate act, or do you stage it to look like an accident, so that the fact it was premeditated is only able to be determined by somebody of significant intelligence? </p><p>It was strangely cathartic, actually. Whilst the sheer volume of material you had to sift through could be overwhelming, it was nice to be able to plan again. It made you feel in control - god-like, in a way. It also reminded you of when you would mentally map out all of the different ways you could slaughter the Archer girls, and subsequently reminded you of how far you had come. </p><p>The days of being locked in a cold basement, abused and used as a servant were long behind you. </p><p>It's then that you make up your mind. You'll choose three bad, bad brothers and blow their houses down. The people they had hurt would get their closure - you would give it to them in the form of three flaming explosions. </p><p>"Oh, Cinderella..." Jim calls out in a sing-song voice, positively gleeful. </p><p>You think that he must be downstairs - his voice is muffled, and you hear some minor commotion, but you're relatively sure it's nothing bad. With a sigh, you discard the file in your hand, set it down on the floor, and make your way downstairs. </p><p>When you reach the bottom floor, you hear some more odd, muffled noises - some strangled sound, the scrape of metal, and it sounds like Jim had just threatened something, or someone, which you can determine from the tone of his voice, but you can't tell exactly what he's saying. </p><p>"Jim?" You say, tentatively. You're almost yelling into a void of empty corridors and rooms. </p><p>Slowly, you stalk around the bottom floor of the house, through a myriad of rooms. You clear the kitchen quickly, finding absolutely nothing of note there and pace down the hallway. The noises get louder, closer. </p><p>You find Jim in the study. It's pretty similar to his last one - a similar desk, chair and bookshelves. The main difference between the study in the last mansion and this one is that the 'trophy cabinet' is empty. The two of you are planning to fill it together. </p><p>He's leaning against his desk, grinning wildly. "I'm glad you could join me." </p><p>You're a little confused. "Did you...need something? I was just working on the victims..." You trail off, utterly lost.</p><p>He chuckles lightly. "Oh, our three little piggies? No, this isn't about them. Actually, I got you something."</p><p>Before you even have the opportunity to ask, he moves away from the desk, and stands at your side. Resting atop the desk was a beautiful, ornate, gilded golden cage, with delicate, swooping metalwork. More stunning than the cage itself, though, was the gorgeous birds inside of it. </p><p>The first is a mousy-brown nightingale, small, soft and fragile, with white feathers across its breast. It's a tiny, spry little thing, bouncing around excitedly on the bar, hooting softly. </p><p>The second is a slightly larger goldfinch, with distinctive crimson red feathers encircling its face, contrasting to the muted whites, browns and blacks that comprise the rest of its body. It ruffles its wings, and cocks its head to the side adorably. </p><p>The last is the woodlark - primarily white but its back and wings are interspersed with pale yellow and brown flecks that rise up over its tiny little face and form stripes down its forehead. </p><p>They're all songbirds - the same kind that would flit about the trees in the garden of your parents house. The same kinds of birds that provided a sweet, melodious harmony to your tedious morning work. Their precious hooting would filter in through the windows, and make you feel somewhat less alone as you cleaned the house each morning. </p><p>"I -" You begin, but a strangled noise escapes you. You actually feel almost choked up. They're like small pieces of home, of a comfort that you had missed. London had lacked tiny, soulful little songbirds. "For me?" </p><p>"Yes for you," Jim scoffs, rolling his eyes. Then, his gaze softens as he notices just how transfixed you are by them. Your eyes light up, and you tentatively place a hand on the cool bars of the gilded cage. "You said you missed hearing them." </p><p>Immediately, you turn and toss your arms around his neck. Jim makes a tiny noise of surprise that you know he would have suppressed if you were anybody else, before he slides his hands around your waist. </p><p>"Thank you," You mumble into the crook of his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He holds onto you just as tightly, just as desperately. </p><p>You couldn't even remember the last time you had received any gifts - it was definitely when your parents were still alive. Once your father had passed away, leaving you an orphan, Verona hadn't seen much reason to keep buying you presents. Aubrey and Alora always came first - they were her darling little girls, and you were the unfortunate burden that had latched onto their perfect family. </p><p>This means more to you than you can even put into words, and you feel almost overwhelmed by it. The pretty little birds coo at each other, singing and chirping softly, marking the beginnings of an ethereal symphony of melodic whistles and warbles.   </p><p>Jim looks down at you. You, a woman with fire in her blood, a woman that was dually desperate for vengeance and freedom, had found peace in his arms. </p><p>You realise that this is home - it's not defined as just a place or a sound or a temperature. It's all those little things that make it lovely, but home is a person. A person whom you feel most understood by. </p><p>That realisation hits you at the exact moment Jim has a revelation of his own. Delight and amusement can come from violence, yes, but it can also be born from love. When he's around you, when you're positioned comfortably in his arms, he feels sated. He doesn't feel like there's a gaping hole in his chest or like the world is too dull. He feels alive. </p><p>Alive isn't a state of being that you have to maintain. It's a feeling - a feeling that you evoke in him. </p><p>You smooth your hands up over the sides of his face, your fingertips idly tracing over his cheekbones. "I think I love you. Have I ever said that before?" </p><p>Suddenly, his mouth feels rather dry. "No, Cinderella, you haven't."</p><p>"I don't know much about love." You admit with a shrug. "The only people that ever loved me were my parents, and they have been dead for years. I do know a lot about suffering, though. I feel pained every moment I'm not in your arms. Is that what love is?" </p><p>He looks down at you, utterly overwhelmed. Jim had thought, for so fucking long, that love was a weakness, something to be exploited for fun - that it was something that only normal, ordinary, average people could experience, and that anybody of any importance had already long since lost their ability to feel such trivial things. </p><p>He doesn't feel weak when he looks down at you. He feels powerful. </p><p>"Oh, Cinderella. If that's what love is then I've been in love with you since the moment we met." Jim says. You think this may be the softest you've ever heard him talk - he's all gentle and lilting and your heart soars. </p><p>Up until now, all of Jim Moriarty's needs and wants had been superficial, frivolous whims that he had bowed to in order to make his life more interesting. This need for you is bone-deep, so extreme that he knows it in his blackened soul. He'd never denied himself before, and he wouldn't now. </p><p>Half-feral, he dips his head down, fusing your lips to his. </p><p>You gasp against his mouth, your petal-soft lips parting involuntarily as your eyes flutter shut, and naturally, he capitalises on that opportunity, plundering your mouth with his tongue. </p><p>There's something utterly divine about this desperation, about the way you kiss almost violently, your tongues stroking against each other, and the way you swallow each other's noises of contentment. Your whole lives, you've been starved of this, of each other. </p><p>You very much resent having to pull away from him to take in heaving gasps of air, so you settle for tugging his body as close to yours as you can, plastering yourself to him. Jim doesn't mind in the slightest, his hands wandering down your back and coming to rest at your hips, gripping them tightly. </p><p>He doesn't want to let go - he doesn't want to ever let go. Between kisses, his fingers will twitch and tug against your hips, a minor manifestation of his frustration. He has never needed like this before. </p><p>It's the sheer ferocity of the want that surprises the both of you. </p><p>Suddenly, your hands are brushing up over his shoulders, pushing his jacket off and letting it fall to a rumpled pile on the floor. He lets you - he's not even bothered that it's Westwood. He can't bring himself to be bothered, not when he can feel your nimble fingers traversing over his neck and collarbones, delicate, exploratory, and possessive. There has yet to be something more valuable to him than your touch.</p><p>He pries your fingers from his neck, taking them in his hands and bringing them to his lips, softly planting kisses across your hands. </p><p>"Jim," You murmur breathily. </p><p>"Hm, Cinderella? Got something you want? You only need to ask." He says teasingly, before his tongue darts out to lick the pad of your thumb, slightly wetting it. His eyes are blown wide with lust, darker than you've ever seen them before. Obsidian would look pale in comparison. </p><p>You let out a tiny, needy whine. "Please."</p><p>"You know," He begins, lowering his head to your neck. Jim inhales deeply, brushing his nose along the column of your throat, feeling your frantic pulse - all of that blood rushing because of him. "I've wanted you like this for so long, Cinderella. I think about you all the time - can't get you out of my head. All mine." He punctuates each word with a lick, nip or kiss at your neck. </p><p>You're certain that your throat will be collared with splashes of reddened and purple flesh tomorrow, blooming, tender pieces of evidence that he had touched you - that he wanted you. </p><p>"'M so glad I got to you first." Jim mutters, his tongue laving your clavicle. "All mine, Cinderella. I get to have you like this." </p><p>He rocks his hips up, and it's then you feel how painfully hard he is - rock solid and begging for release. Jim's desperate for you - he can feel it in his chest, in the way his heart's beating faster than it ever had before. He looks down at you. Your eyes are wide, your lips swollen and red, and your neck is littered with bites that are flushed crimson indentations of his teeth. You look absolutely wrecked and he doesn't think he's ever seen anything quite so beautiful. </p><p>And this is all for him - it's all his. Nobody had been able to take this from him. </p><p>Forcefully, his hands meander up your torso, and he begins work on divesting you of your clothes. </p><p>You whimper needily, pressing yourself against him wantonly. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot your darling songbirds, flapping their wings in their golden cage. "Mmph, not in front of them." </p><p>"Not in front of the birds?" He asks incredulously, before scowling down at you, darkly. "I think you'll find that I'll fuck you in front of whoever, or whatever, I please."</p><p>Jim's hands drop from your body, and you mourn the loss of his hands against your skin. It had been divine, a blazing map of touches that were simultaneously soft and domineering. He stalks over to your pretty, caged birds and he lifts the cage in one smooth movement. They don't even stir, but they do look at him confusedly. </p><p>He saunters out of the study, jaw clenched, and returns only moments later, minus the cage. </p><p>"What are you -" You begin to ask, confusedly. Your sentence is abruptly ended as he surges towards you, half-feral and snarling, fusing his mouth to yours. Your lips meet his in a frenzy. The way the two of you kiss - if this can even be called kissing - is violent. It's the very definition of extremism, of danger, with his tongue stroking against yours, the fire within you is only stoked, it's flames fed. </p><p>"I did that as a favour to you, Cinderella." He mutters, "Do something for me, won't you?" </p><p>"Mhm, anything." You manage to say breathily, between plunderous kisses. </p><p>Jim grins - it's a kind of wild, wicked, sinful grin that you think wouldn't be out of place on the face of Satan himself. It makes you feel weak in the knees, and like you're liable to collapse at any moment, solely because you know he'll always catch you. </p><p>"Bend over the desk." He orders, his lips quirking upwards. </p><p>You splutter for a response, your mouth hanging slightly open. He shushes you mockingly, pressing a finger against your open lips. </p><p>"Now, Cinderella." Jim commands. </p><p>A shock of excitements runs through you, heat pooling in the pit of your stomach. There's almost nothing going through your mind, you just find yourself silently complying, pulling away from him, utterly breathless, half-dizzy and pressing your chest against the desk. Your ass is half in the air, and you feel rather exposed like this, despite the fact you're not completely naked. Rather, your clothes have barely been disturbed. </p><p>Jim lets out a low whistle, staring at you, his gaze predatorial. His dark eyes are fixated on you - on the image of you bent over his desk, your delicious, heart-shaped bum displayed before him. You're practically offering yourself to him, all spread out like a feast. It's everything he's ever wanted.</p><p>He comes up behind you, tugging pieces of your clothing off you until you're bare before him, tits smushed against his desk, your nipples pressing almost painfully against the wooden grain. You just keep whimpering pitifully, elongated, desperate whines tearing from your throat, panting softly, despite the fact he's barely even touched you. </p><p>"Oh, are you desperate, Cinderella?" Jim says, teasingly. He strokes a hand down your back, his fingertips gently tracing your spine, the other hand keeping your own arms secured in order to further restrain you and maintain his control. "Do you want me?" </p><p>"So badly," You whisper, your voice pained. </p><p>"So pretty," He breathes, eyes wide. Jim's half tempted to keep you like this for a while longer, watching you twitch and suffer beneath his gaze, strung out on anticipation. He's no stranger to cruelty, but he'd already promised never to deny you anything. His cock is straining against his pants, heavy, hard and weeping, desperate to be buried within you. </p><p>"Please," You sob, "Just touch me." </p><p>His grip on your hands tightens, his fingertips stroking against your fluttering pulse point as his other hand pulls away from your spine, to drift down over your hip and the curve of your ass, before ultimately ending up at your dripping core. </p><p>He drags the tips of his fingers between your folds, gathering your slick on them. "You're so wet, Cinderella. How long have you wanted this for?" </p><p>"So long," You admit, feeling sweat begin to bead on your forehead. You resist his iron-clad grip, tugging against his hands, desperate for your own to be free. </p><p>Jim makes a chiding 'tsk' noise. Disappointingly, his hand pulls away from your cunt, and you let out a sob of discontentment. Lightning quick, his palm returns, smacking harshly against your core. A half-moan, half-strangled noise of pain is torn from deep within you, and you arch your back, grinding back against his fingers. It hurts, but oh god, you just want him to touch you more. </p><p>"I had no idea you were this much of a whore." Jim hisses and you feel your face flush. "Keep your hands there." He commands. </p><p>All too slowly, he drops to his knees. You twitch, feeling his hot breath fan across the backs of your thighs. His hands grip your thighs, his fingertips splaying over the bottom of your ass. Forcefully, he parts your thighs with his hands, and begins to lick you with fervour. </p><p>You let out a strangled gasp, almost choking on the saliva pooling in your mouth. His tongue is terrible, horrible, absolutely hellish and you never want this sensation to stop. He drags his tongue between your folds, eagerly lapping up your juices. </p><p>There has never really been a time when he wanted to service anyone like this. But, Jim has always wanted you to be sated - and he's able to derive his own enjoyment from this, from the breathy, needy little noises that escape your mouth and make his cock twitch. He doesn't think he's ever feasted like this before - he's never tasted anything quite like your cunt. Fucking divine - addictive. </p><p>It's ambrosia tumbling from between your thighs and onto his tongue. It has to be. There's no other way of explaining how you taste like heaven. </p><p>His tongue flicks against your clit, wrenching a sob from your chest. This is absolute torture - being held open and roughly fucked by his tongue, his own little noises of contentment sending vibrations through you - and the best thing you've ever experienced. </p><p>Jim is sure he'd die a happy man between your thighs, the taste of you lingering on his tongue. He'd never before wanted to make anybody else feel good. But now, he thinks he's become an addict to the noises he coaxes from your lips. All those whines, keens and moans are just for him. </p><p>He had a soft spot for your songbirds solely because you happened to like the symphony they would produce together. Their little hoots and chirps had been pretty. But this melody of whines, and the breathy sound of his name tumbling from your mouth are beautiful. Nothing else could ever even seek to compare. </p><p>He absolutely revels in the way you half-flinch away from him whenever his tongue brushes against your clit, only to attempt to grind yourself down on his face seconds later, ravenous and wanting. </p><p>There's a steady heat building within you, like a hot band of iron tightening in your stomach. You're so close, unbearably close - right on the precipice of oblivion. </p><p>"'M not gonna let you cum, Cinderella." Jim says. </p><p>It's absolute fucking torture - the way he pulls away from you. You had been so, so close, and you try to plead with him, but every word that tumbles from your mouth emerges fragmented and broken. </p><p>"Not yet, anyway." He amends, before delving back between your legs, groaning into your cunt. </p><p>"Please," You beg. </p><p>He does feel a pang of sympathy for you then. You're so desperate for that blissful release, and he almost wants to give in, to let you finish on his tongue. There's something absolutely entrancing about the way you beg, pleading for him to bring you more pleasure. Jim's tempted, but for once, he manages to curb his impulsivity. </p><p>No, he wants the first time you cum to be when he's buried to the hilt inside of you. That is a far more delicious thought. Every single moment, every decision, every whim he caved to, has led him here, to you. </p><p>Jim pulls away from you for a second time, rising from his knees, standing straight and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.</p><p>You hear the dull, metallic noise of a belt-buckle being unlatched, and you take in a shuddering breath. He has you strung high, bent over his desk, and completely naked before him. You should probably feel vulnerable, ashamed, even. But you don't. Rather, you feel like all of your senses have been heightened, and you're inclined to beg for even the lightest of touches. </p><p>A gasp is forced from your lungs when you feel it - his cock, hard, red, weeping, settling between the cleft of your ass. </p><p>"Do you want me to fuck you, Cinderella?" Jim's voice is verging on a growl, and he sounds borderline manic. </p><p>"More than anything." You say, and you sound like you've been choked - your voice rough and scratchy. You sound absolutely destroyed, like all of those whimpers and moans that Jim had torn from you had eviscerated your vocal chords. </p><p>Hearing those words tumble from your mouth had Jim feeling more alive than he had in years. You're here, you're his, and you're under him, begging to be fucked. </p><p>In an instant, he's running his cock through your folds and lining the tip up with your entrance. </p><p>"Please," You beg, shuffling backwards from your position on the desk, widening your legs slightly and rocking back. </p><p>All too slowly, he begins to sink inside of you, his cock pushing your fluttering walls open. You feel absolutely devastated the moment he's inside of you, stretched open, burning and struggling to acclimate to the sensation. </p><p>It's both too much and not enough at the same time. Jim's hand curls across your hip, his grip on your flesh almost bruising. You writhe against the desk, desperate and gasping. </p><p>He strokes his other hand down your spine, his fingertips delicately tracing over the notches of your vertebrae. "Are you okay, Cinderella?" Jim sounds half-teasing, but he's been made breathless by the feeling of you wrapped around him, and any mocking infliction in his voice is ultimately limited by an inability to get enough air into his lungs. </p><p>Managing a grin, you glance backwards, finding his cheeks flushed and he's glistening with sweat. It's thrilling to know just how deeply affected he is - that it's not just anger that can break his icy composure, but pleasure, too. You feel rather proud that you've been the one to reduce him to this state. </p><p>"Move, please." You say, your voice coming out more strained, more whiny, than you intend for it to. </p><p>Slowly, he drags his cock out of you, before plunging back in. Jim starts slowly, amusedly watching you mewl like a kitten beneath him, constantly begging for more, eternally pleading with him, like you can't quite get enough of him, and of everything he can bring you. You're absolutely lovely, in the way you arch your back and press yourself into his touch - it's such a pretty, mesmerising sight that he's so tempted to just stand back and stare, in order to properly memorise everything about this moment. </p><p>You're so desperate for him that it drives him to near-madness. You want him so badly, and it's a near religious experience to have you laid out like this, all his for the taking. Torturously slowly, he begins to establish the rhythm that you're pleading for, incrementally increasing the force and speed of his thrusts into you. </p><p>"So good, aren't you, Cinderella?" He says, panting as he drives into you. Jim's grip on your hip tightens, and his other hand slides up your spine and the back of your neck, sinking into your hair. Hurriedly, he gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail with one hand, twisting the silky soft strands between his fingers and tugging, forcing your head to snap up. </p><p>You cry out, half in pain, half in pleasure. His dual grip of your waist and hair has restricted your movement, giving you no option but to just lie there, bent over his desk, and take the fast-paced, harsh pounding he was giving you. </p><p>For minutes at a time, you had pleaded for this, cries of 'harder' and 'faster' falling from your swollen lips like prayers. And now that you were receiving it, you could barely handle it. Your hips were constantly rocking into the edge of the table, your thighs hitting the wood repeatedly. And yet, despite the dull pains blooming in your legs, you can't bring yourself to ask him to change anything about this. </p><p>Not when the pleasure is so intense, when he's playing you like you're some instrument and the moans spilling from your mouth are his symphony. </p><p>Every single one of your senses is heightened. You can feel every little movement, the stirring of his cock buried deep within you, the feeling of Jim's hand wrapped tightly in your hair, the way your thighs shake, the way your lungs sting with every breath you take, and the burning sensation burrowed deep within your belly that grows in intensity with every stroke of his cock. </p><p>"So good for me," Jim breathes, his thighs slamming against the back of yours. "Desperate, aren't you?" </p><p>You nod emphatically, strands of your hair slipping from your grip to frame your face. "Yes, yes." You chant. </p><p>A chuckle, dark and wicked, slips from his lips. "Do you want to come, Cinderella? Will you beg for it?"</p><p>"Is that - ah," You manage between pants, almost crippled by the pleasure building within you. "Is that what you'd like?"</p><p>Jim tugs on your hair, prompting a strangled noise to escape from your throat, all whiny, pained and desperate to feel some sort of culmination of this pleasure. It's a lovely sound, probably his favourite sound - he thinks that even your darling little songbirds can't compare. They could never produce any sound as heavenly as you moaning, aching for him. </p><p>"Please," You say. "Please, Jim. Please."</p><p>All of your fire and steel had been so lovely - the way that you were positively hellish to everybody else. And even lovelier still was the sound of you begging for him. A rugged groan spills from his lips, and all of a sudden it's a struggle for him not to finish then and there. </p><p>His hand snakes over one of your thighs, preventing it from hitting the desk, and Jim strokes your clit, his forefinger rubbing tight circles over it. </p><p>You shudder as he leans over you, pressing more of himself against you. He's in so deep now - it's hard to tell where he ends and you begin. You almost feel dizzy with want, stuffed full and trapped between his hips, still slamming into you, and the strokes of his fingertips. </p><p>"I'm gonna come," You choke out, gasping as that burning pleasure builds within you.</p><p>"Go on the, Cinderella. Come for me." He commands. </p><p>For a fraction of a second, your vision turns white as your eyes roll back into your skull. That pleasure increases, barreling through you like some kind of devastating tsunami, leaving you breathless, like the air had been snatched out of your lungs. In that instant, you feel like you've been brought to the brink of oblivion and hurled into the cosmos, completely adrift, and stranded amongst blinding, blinkering stars. </p><p>Your breath leaves you in harsh pants, and you slump down, only held in place by Jim's tight hold on your hair. </p><p>He didn't think he'd ever felt something more wonderful, more powerful than the feeling of your walls fluttering around his cock, of you coming all over him, accepting every ounce of pleasure he gave you. </p><p>Jim's hand is sliding back from your cunt, to settle on your hip again. He's thrusting wildly, driven half-feral, plagued by your moans, and enraptured by the feeling of you wrapped around him, tight, hot, and perfect. </p><p>"Where -" He begins. And he sounds absolutely wrecked, destroyed, like he had been fractured into pieces by this experience, by you. </p><p>You can already understand his question, even when he cuts himself off with a low grunt. "Inside." </p><p>Jim drives into you harshly, his grip on your hip, and his hand in your hair, tightening exponentially as he buries himself deep. He comes with a groan, his cock twitching within you. </p><p>The next few moments are filled by a cacophony of pants, both of you utterly out of breath, half-slick with sweat and exhausted. </p><p>Jim's tight grip on your hair loosens, and his hand comes up over the back of your head, carding through your hair and massaging your scalp softly. He presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck, over one of the many throbbing bites he had given you. </p><p>"You're so good, my Cinderella." Jim whispers, his voice hoarse.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. ...the end?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time passes in a cacophony of the terrified screams of your victims, and soft affirmations from your lover. There's no doubt about your positions in each others lives now, you take each other as partners in every sense of the word. The two of you ruthlessly work your way through Germany in a series of macabre fairytales that baffle the police. </p><p>And your darling, bloody variations of the bedtime stories do attract people that want to play the game.</p><p>Men and women alike - with their minds like diamonds come after you, all hyperlogical and desperate to be the one to crack the case. Viciously, you destroy them one by one. You can get inside of their minds easily, understand every tiny little aspect of their being and utilise it against them. There are minute differences between them, superficial things like their hobbies and relationships. </p><p>But at their core, they're all the same. They're all hungry - but you and Jim are ravenous.</p><p>The planning is one of your favourite parts of the whole operation, but his always has and always will be, is the fall. The inevitable destruction of those angels that tried to oppose you. They were doomed from the moment that they presumed that they were capable of defeating the two of you. </p><p>Surprisingly, he doesn't get bored, despite the fact that each game ends the same way. Your victory is always assured. You would expect Jim to find it all predictable, but he's been relatively sated. Naturally, he still finds most people dull - but he laments their existence slightly less than he used to. </p><p>The three little pigs, little red riding hood, goldilocks and the three bears - you painstakingly plan and create as many as possible. Your entire lifestyle is funded by Moriarty's criminal enterprise. He's not as directly involved as he once was. He is primarily involved via the phone, taking calls in his office between fragments of the planning process. Occasionally, he'll ask you for your opinion on his next course of action. </p><p>You're not bothered by it in the slightest. If you wanted to be involved, there was no doubt in your mind that he would allow you. There is nothing he wouldn't give you, even the empire he had built himself. </p><p>The two of you are essentially operating from the shadows, keeping Moriarty dead. It's far easier to get away with your crimes when nobody knows who to look for. Whilst Jim may be a well-documented public figure, you are not. The police don't even have a semi-recent picture of you. You're very much acting like ghosts. </p><p>Everything's perfectly fine for a while. You toy with the angels of the world, create your fairytales, listen to the lovely songs from your birds, and you're the most content you've ever been.</p><p>The two of you are more than happy to remain together in that mansion, sharing your bed with him and waking up each morning curled up against his chest, his hands brushing across your body softly. </p><p>...and then, it becomes apparent that something's very wrong. </p><p>You're in the study, Jim sat at his desk, and you're sprawled across his lap, carefully examining the range of documents strewn across it - pictures, death certificates, warrants for arrests, court documents and the like. </p><p>This kind of intimacy has become common to you now. You don't have to perch on the edge of his desk, watch from the doorway, or anything like that. And why would you?</p><p>"There's something very wrong here, Cinderella." Jim says, frowning down at the papers. His voice doesn't even take on its normal teasing tone. "Very, very wrong." </p><p>The feeling of you lounging around in his lap is only somewhat comforting. Under any sort of normal circumstances, perhaps whilst you were in the midst of planning a murder, he would have slipped his hands up your legs and been in the process of getting you off. But there's no time for such beautiful distractions, no matter how tempted he is. </p><p>You simply nod along. All of this evidence is beginning to become a mountain of concern. There are people disappearing - being arrested, and subsequently removed from the criminal world. It had started small, a few henchmen every now and then mysteriously vanishing, only for it to be discovered that they were in prison. </p><p>That wasn't entirely unexpected. Their main purpose was to do most of the grunt work, and to take the fall for any crimes if necessary. And then, more and more people started vanishing into obscurity, seemingly not of their own volition. </p><p>"They're not doing this to themselves," You say quietly, as you scrutinise all the documents. "I think that somebody is very dedicated to destroying everything you've built."</p><p>He nods, running a finger over one of the arrest warrants, dragging his short nail over the paper and leaving a slight indentation in it. "Somebody's playing a game with us, Cinderella." He hisses out, entirely unamused.</p><p>You sigh, settling back against his chest and running your palm over his thigh. This whole series of events has become somewhat unsettling - like there was somebody circling around you, and you couldn't see them. It was making you paranoid. This gigantic web of a criminal enterprise is vulnerable. It can be diminished, damaged and chipped away at. </p><p>"This isn't a game, I don't think." You refute him, tracing some intricate pattern over his thigh, a gesture that's calming to both of you. "I think that somebody genuinely believes that you're dead, and they're trying to sweep away the last remnants of your power." </p><p>"Well, it won't work." Jim says. "We're always the bigger fish." </p><p>He actually does sound entertained now - having swung from pure rage to something akin to glee. You can easily predict exactly what's going on in his mind. He's devising a way to play with them, to show the perpetrator who he is, to reclaim his title and restore his empire. </p><p>Jim wants to toy with anybody that dares go against him, against you. And this new opponent is probably the most capable one you've seen in a while. They've never been caught - they're like a wraith, moving from person to person and bringing them to justice, slowly dismantling years worth of work. </p><p>This opponent is the one that comes closest to being Sherlock Holmes, you think. They have real potential. </p><p>"We are." You say reassuringly, practically crooning into his ear. "But what if we let him think he's won? We send our most vital people underground, and when our opponent shows his face, we get him then? It would be unfortunate to give away the fact that you're alive too soon." </p><p>"But that might take years." He protests.</p><p>"You've been patient before. We can wait." </p><p>Moriarty places a hand on your waist, firm and enrapturing - possessive despite the fact that there's nobody in the house but the two of you. "I waited the whole of two days before I came to get you, you know. I wouldn't call that patient, Cinderella. In fact, I can be far from it." </p><p>"I know that, too." You say. "But, I think our best chances are to wait it out, and ensure the people we need to keep are hidden. We don't want to act too soon and send our opponent running away." </p><p>"No, we don't." Jim agrees. "It'd be a shame to lose someone with potential like that - potential to be really good. You know, it's almost like he's -" </p><p>You nod, immediately recognising his trail of thought. This just felt so much like Sherlock - you'd beaten many others like him, and yet you felt that he was the most interesting of the lot. He was probably the smartest one, and he'd come so close to catching you. He had, for a short while, provided you with real opposition - with a real enemy that you had to plan to fool. </p><p>And then he was gone, fallen from the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's hospital, of your own volition. </p><p>"Yes, I'd thought the same thing for a time." You agree, twisting around to look up at Jim, shuffling your leg slightly and resting it over his. "But now I'm thinking...Mycroft? He'd be capable of this. In fact, he'd have the motivation and authorisation - we killed his brother. Or rather, we forced his brother to kill himself." </p><p>Jim pauses, frowning slightly. "Mmh, maybe not. He could have done it, I think. But then again, his time's probably occupied with clearing Sherly's name - he won't want his dead little brother to seem like a liar, after all." </p><p>"You might be right. What about Doctor Watson, then?" You suggest, and then grimace immediately after. "I mean...I assume he'd know Sherlock well enough to be able to emulate him if he really wanted to." You hurry to explain yourself. </p><p>"Oh come on, Cinderella." Jim groans. "No. Not Doctor Watson. He couldn't be anything like Sherlock if he tried. He's currently wallowing in self-pity, anyway." He says, quickly dismissing your idea. </p><p>You can't help but to agree. You had never properly met Sherlock, and neither had you met his loyal companion, John Watson, but you had researched him enough to get a decent grasp on who he was as a person. He was just an average man, a good doctor whom had been injured in the line of duty, with a pervasive sense of justice. John Watson also had the privilege of being one of the very few people that Sherlock cared about. </p><p>He was unendingly loyal, even to a fault. His belief in Sherlock hadn't been shaken or wavered in the slightest even when everybody else in his life thought that the consulting detective was a complete fraud. </p><p>"You're right." You conceded, wracking your brain for any further suggestions of the culprit before ultimately deciding that there weren't any that you could think of off the top of your head. </p><p>But, this person was skilled. They had to have some kind of experience. You don't attempt to take down Jim Moriarty if you're not confident that you'll succeed - that would be a suicide mission. This person, this wraith of a human being, had to have appeared somewhere before. </p><p>"I normally am," Jim says teasingly. </p><p>"Do you still have people watching baker street?" You ask. </p><p>He nods, "I do. I've got people all over London. Thought it might be a good idea to keep an eye on John, and Mycroft, too. They're dreadfully boring, but you never know when they might become useful." </p><p>"People all over London?" You narrow your eyes slightly. "Is that how you found me?" </p><p>Jim, very pointedly, looks away from you. "Ugh, maybe." He scoffs in disgust, pouting slightly. </p><p>"How did you even know what I would look like?" You ask, exasperatedly. "I just don't understand how you found me so quickly."</p><p>Moriarty avoids the question again, refusing to meet your eyes and staring off into the distance, as if he'd found some spot on the wall of his study that was more interesting than you. Which you knew to be utter shite, of course. There was nothing that he found more interesting than you. </p><p>"Oh come on, Jim." You plead, huffing. </p><p>This was one mystery he wouldn't untangle for you. You understood perfectly well how it was Sherlock Holmes had come so close to finding you - checking through the hotels. But Moriarty found you far quicker, and you couldn't help but wonder why. There was no way it was simply down to chance, that your meeting was simply because he happened to check the correct hotel first. </p><p>Then, you see his lips quirk upwards slightly, into some half-bastardised version of a grin. And then, you understand. He wants you to figure it out - just as he had wanted to watch you plan his death and help him find out whoever was dismantling his criminal empire. </p><p>This was what he wanted - to see your brilliant, beautiful, fascinating mind work. To see the fire in your eyes as you tried to decipher his method. It was very lovely, really. Jim very frequently liked to imagine what you were like before you had killed your step-family, to envisage the rage that had steadily built within you, and the cruel, calculating way in which you formulated the plot to kill them. He often felt like this was the closest he would get to that. </p><p>Sometimes, when the opposition from the Sherlocks of the world would fall short, you would have to challenge each other, instead. Solely intellectually, of course. The two of you would never lay a hand on each other that wasn't loving. Violence was reserved for others. Only tenderness existed between you two. Well, tenderness and plots to kill. </p><p>And then, you push your questions aside. They can come later. You're terribly curious about how he had found you in the first place, and even more anxious than that about creating a plan to combat whatever was going on. </p><p>"We still need a plan, Jim." You say, glancing back at the files strewn across the desk. "Do we wait it out? It seems safest. So long as whatever we do here isn't connected to us, we should be fine." </p><p>He sighs, his chest rising and falling. Jim turns to look down at you again, and he drums his fingers against your side, patting your waist protectively. You feel so small against him, tiny and fragile, though he knows that you're nothing of the sort. Your soul is made of fire. "I've already told you, Cinderella. Whatever you want, it's yours." </p><p>"So we wait?" You ask tentatively.</p><p>"We wait." He confirms, grinning. </p><p>Even waiting requires planning, though. You'll probably have to steer clear of England for a while, considering that is the stronghold of Moriarty's empire. It would be rather easy for your little wraith to find you there. It's best for you to take your favoured contacts underground and wait it out.</p><p>It would guarantee your safety, preserve your assets, and let you wait until your newest opponent surfaced. It had the potential to be a tedious waiting period, and to make Jim very grumpy, considering the fact he would be losing a sizeable chunk of his network. Fortunately, you had a great many things to fulfill you. </p><p>You would be making a few phone calls of your own later. You feel like you owe it to Sebastian to keep him out of trouble. Perhaps you could even welcome him to visit, if only for a while. </p><p>It was a decent plan that needed just a little bit more moulding before it became perfect. You were more than willing to shape it. </p><p>And Jim was more than content to watch. He longed to admire you as you burned your way through the world, as you tore apart those who sought to threaten you. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>TWO YEARS LATER...</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The last henchman falls, and Jim Moriarty's extensive criminal network is presumed to be reduced to rubble. It is the ashes of what it once was. Without him at the helm, lording over all of his subservient subjects, each and every contact can be rooted out and brought to justice. </p><p>The last remnants of Moriarty's legacy have been totally destroyed. There is nothing left of him but the memories of the terror he rained down upon those around him. </p><p>With the criminal empire uprooted and imprisoned, Sherlock Holmes returns triumphantly to London. He had made a grand show of his own death, fooling everybody into believing he had killed himself. </p><p>His return is not without fanfare - the press and his friends alike are astounded. Anderson has compiled a great number of theories on how Sherlock had survived the fall, but the great, almighty consulting detective refused to listen to a word from his mouth. It's not a completely smooth transition, and he's almost shocked to find that things have changed. </p><p>In the absence of Sherlock Holmes, the world kept turning. People kept going on - they continued their lives. Even John had been able to secure himself some closure, by moving out of Baker Street and meeting a woman he adored. </p><p>When Sherlock returned, he didn't expect things to have changed much. He expected everything to just freeze the moment he was no longer in the picture, so that when he came back he could resume his rightful place, and nothing would be askew. That didn't happen. </p><p>Eventually, John forgives Sherlock and the two are able to resume their friendship. Things are different now, of course. They have to be. It has been years, and everybody has evolved from the people they were before Sherlock's fall. </p><p>And, everybody is able to settle into a routine. One in which everybody was alive and happy. For a short while, life was blissful. </p><p>Most of the time, Sherlock felt on top of the world. He had done it - he had single-handedly destroyed an entire criminal empire, and the only consequence of it was that occasionally feel a little bit melancholy that everybody had moved on with their lives without him. But, that hardly mattered, not when he was able to slot back into their lives. </p><p>Everything could continue the way it was meant to. </p><p>The day begins like any other. Sherlock flits about 221B, finding that his morning tea had already been prepared. It's in some dainty little china cup that Mrs Hudson had once mentioned was a gift from her mother in law, and accompanied by a stack of biscuits. </p><p>But that's not all. Sherlock frowns, peering down at the tray with narrowed eyes. </p><p>Next to his stack of biscuits was a small, gleaming glass high heel. It was decorated intricately - a result of fine craftsmanship by a very skilled glassblower. There are a series of delicate spirals swirling up the heel. It was dainty, almost whimsical, and refracted rays of light off it, sending streaks of light all over his flat. </p><p>Carefully, he picks it up, his fingers running over the smooth glass. It almost looks like a pale blue at times, but is mostly clear - it looks frosted, almost. It's definitely not something that Mrs Hudson would ever leave him. </p><p>Somebody had left him a very expensive looking glass slipper. </p><p>Possibly somebody who remained suspiciously unaccounted for during his takedown of Moriarty's criminal empire - Moriarty's inspiration, and Sherlock's fascination. </p><p>Sherlock's eyes widen as he spies a note. Quickly, he sets the glass heel down and snags the note. It's weighty, expensive card, and the writing is printed onto it, embedded into the card in dark ink. His ice blue eyes dart from line to line, reading it rapidly.</p><p> </p><p>'WELCOME BACK, SHERLOCK. </p><p>CARE TO PLAY ANOTHER GAME? </p><p>- CINDERELLA AND PRINCE CHARMING'</p>
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